Brothers, Fathers, Sons and Daughters
by athelas63
Summary: COMPLETE STORY - Boromir is wounded and captured by the Haradrim, can Faramir rescue him in time?
1. In the Hands of the Haradrim

**Disclaimer:  **I own no one, get no money, and generally waste a great deal of my time thinking and writing this stuff!

**Thanks:  **To Princess Faz for inspiration and sugggestions, and to Benji for beta-ing and great ideas. 

**Note:**  This story takes place approx. 15 years before LOTR.  Boromir is 25, Faramir is 20.  It is based on movie-canon, because as long as I am going to lust after Sean Bean and Princess Faz is going to lust after David Wenham, we are going to write stories about them.  Besides, we needed the green/blue eyes for the story to work!  I made up all the stuff about the Haradrim because JRR Tolkien doesn't give much info about them in the book.  I always picture them as being like the Arabs at the time of the Crusades – tough, scary, mean and smart.  I made up all the other stuff – names, places, etc.  

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**In the Hands of the Haradrim**

"Khan-jook!"  A booted foot buried itself in Boromir's stomach, forcing his breath out and causing him to fall forward yet again.  With his hands tied tightly behind him, he had no way of breaking the fall and landed heavily in the sand, turning his head at the last minute to avoid hitting face first.  He lay with his eyes closed, trying to keep from breathing sand in through his open mouth while his nose coursed blood, staining the ground beneath him.  It had been hours since his capture and he felt the aching heaviness of exhaustion in every muscle.  Even this was a chance to rest for a few seconds and he was content to lie still for the moment.  

But the Haradrim officer was not finished with his – interrogation? No, an interrogation meant questioning, soliciting information, promises and threats.  This was nothing more than a beating, carried out for the enjoyment of the officer, and the amusement of the troops who now encircled the soldier of Gondor, jeering and laughing.  Reaching down, the black-haired Southron twisted his fingers into Boromir's long blond hair and dragged him up again, forcing him back into a kneeling position, no easy task with the screaming agony of the arrow jutting from his hip.  He gritted his teeth and managed to stay upright, trying to ignore the pain clawing at him.  Raising his eyes, he met those of his tormentor.

A mistake; it served only to inflame the man's anger, and with another curse in his native tongue he drew back his hand and sent it crashing across Boromir's face for at least the tenth time, the decorative beading on his gloves leaving a new set of scratches on his cheeks.  The young Gondorian captain reeled, but stayed where he was, and again sought the eyes of his captor.  Foolishness, he knew, everything he had ever been taught said he should keep his head down, avoid angering the enemy that held him.  But it was hard to fight his natural inclination to resist, let them know he was not broken, not yet.  His green eyes held a challenge as he stared up at the soldier of Harad.  The dark-eyed man raised his hand again.

"Shantaq!"  The commanding voice of a superior officer interrupted the completion of the stroke.  The new arrival was finely dressed, his pants and robe richly decorated with embroidery and beading, his headpiece adorned with small discs of metal.  The swarthy face beneath it was lean and haughty, partially hidden by a well-kept beard, above which were black eyes glinting in the harsh sunlight.  The sword that hung at his side was a huge, curved thing with Haradrim designs etched into the blade.  He had been watching from further back, but now stepped forward frowning, his obsidian eyes piercing his subordinate.  The other man merely stared back in silence until the newcomer ordered him away so that he might study the captive.  Even as the displaced officer retreated with reluctance, he was voicing his objections quietly under his breath. He was ignored, save for a quick command.  "Jekarr, silence."  

Al-jur Dhan looked down at the young warrior for a long time, weighing his usefulness.  Usually he had his men take no prisoners, and on the rare occasion when they did capture an enemy alive, he soon ordered him killed, seeing no point in slowing down his own men simply to drag along someone who served no purpose.  But this one…he couldn't shake the thought that something about this one was different.  He was not just a regular soldier that much was clear.  The arrogance in those foreign green eyes came from a lifetime of leadership, of telling men what to do and seeing them do it, not just the few years of military command his age could have allowed him.  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  "Jekarr," he called his second in command to him.  "Go find Mohem, bring him to me."  The other man frowned, but then bowed and instantly disappeared on his errand.

Dhan turned his attention back to his captive.  He saw the fair head droop wearily for just a moment.  When it was raised again, the face was held carefully neutral, staring straight ahead.  He put out his hand and grasped the pale-skinned man by the chin, forcing him to look up.  The eyes that met his were full of defiance, anger and hatred, the raw intensity of emotion causing them to gleam.  Dhan smiled a knowing smile.  He had seen that look many times before.  It would not last.  His eyes roved over the soldier, noting the knife wound scored across the ribs, the arrow that pierced his hip.  Casually reaching down to grasp the shaft, he gave it a vicious twist, causing the Gondorian to cry out and collapse back into the sand.  He lay there, gasping for breath as little sobs of pain escaped him.  Al-jur Dhan smiled again.  He was already making progess.

Boromir lay still in the dust, his leg muscles jumping and his breathing ragged as the torment in his hip died back a little to match the dull ache in his head.  His chest burned as each breath stretched the torn skin across his ribs, the small scratches and abrasions from the sand and the beating itched and stung, and the weariness that had been steadily growing as the hours passed now lay on him like a weight.  He had known the moment he saw the Haradrim general that his situation had suddenly changed and not for the better.  The man walked with the measured tread of authority, one who had total control and would use it however he chose.  The cruel look in his eye gave the Captain of Gondor a clue as to how he would exercise that power.  Boromir had lowered his head and tried to wipe any emotion from his features.   He could not mask his eyes, however, and when the dark hands lifted his face, he knew his true thoughts were easily read.

The cold smile on the General's face sounded a warning inside Boromir's head.  This man would kill him with no thought or emotion.  The offhand way in which he had handled the arrow, the impassive expression as he had watched his captive writhe in anguish on the ground, made it clear that here was one to whom suffering was merely a tool to be used for his gain.  The first Haradrim had merely been enjoying inflicting pain for pain's sake, but this one would do so for his own reasons and to achieve his own goals.  Boromir had a feeling that would be worse.

Al-jur Dhan waited until the young man had quieted before calling forward two low-ranking Haradrim from the group gathered around to watch.  "Pull it out," he said quietly, gesturing to the arrow.   

The unintelligible Southron speech sounded harsh to Boromir's ears and he anxiously wondered what had been ordered.  In a moment he found himself being flattened into the hot desert soil, while calloused hands pulled at his breeches and the arrow buried there.  The Haradrim were tall and wiry and although he struggled, he was soon immobile, his mouth choked with sand and dirt, the gash in his side flaming with pain as it was ground against the rocks beneath him.   His vision was obscured by the robes of those holding him, so his first clue to their purpose was a firm grip on the protruding shaft of the arrow.  It was agony, and he couldn't quiet the groans that came from him as it was pulled and twisted, the metal point grinding deeply within him.  He felt consciousness swimming away, and struggled to stay awake, refusing to allow himself to slip into the comfort of insensibility. The men holding him pressed his head into the dirt, striking the tender spot there and darkness rose before him like a mist so that he heard those who held him speaking to their general through a noisome hum as he fought against oblivion.  

"It will not loosen, master."  As he spoke, one of the Haradrim tried a different tactic, trying to push the arrow through to the other side.  This caused such a crescendo of pain that Boromir found himself frantically trying to pull away, screaming at them to stop, stop, little caring by that point if they understood his words or not.  Just as he heard the sharp crack of splintering wood, the gripping pain in his hip tore through his body to transform into a murky black haze in his head.  He passed out, his body limp and his mind unaware when they withdrew the shaft, leaving the arrowhead behind.    

"Jekarr and his metal arrowheads," grunted Dhan under his breath in disgust.  He ordered them to leave the soldier on the ground and waited for the arrival of his requested man, who soon appeared beside him.  "Tell me about the son of Gondor's Steward, Mohem," the dark-eyed General commanded him.

When Boromir came to minutes later, he was lying on his back with his hands still tied behind him, while the Haradrim general and another man stood off to the side and looked him over.  They spoke with quiet urgency, the general shooting several appraising glances at him.  Boromir rolled heavily onto his side, feeling the stickiness of drying blood across his breeches, his bleeding ribs protesting his position.  All his accoutrements, his cloak, his sword, his knife; even his shirt, had disappeared when he was first captured, stripped from him by screaming Haradrim, and he had been left covered only by his breeches.  Now the fierce southern sun beat down on his bare skin with blistering heat, increasing his feeling of light-headedness, while the pain in his hip pounded with hammering intensity, leaving him feeling sick and dizzy.  He licked some of the sand from his lips and lay still.

"Is it him?" Dhan asked, his black eyes shining in eagerness.  "I want to be sure."

"I cannot be sure, my master."  Mohem's face was contorted with indecision.  His pinched features and darting eyes made him resemble a desert rat.  "It has been many years since I traveled to Gondor."  He cast a sidelong look at the young man prone in the sand.  "It could be him."

"I do not care for 'could be,'" Dhan's expression turned icy.  He stroked his short black beard.  "I myself have never set eyes on the Steward's whelp, but I have heard stories of him."  He paused thoughtfully.  "However this one is of no use to me if he is not the son of their leader.  I may as well kill him now."  He sighed and glared at Mohem in disappointment.

"It was many years, sir," whined Mohem again.  "I do not know…it could be him."  He hastily went on as he saw his master's patience fading.  "The boy I saw resembled this man, blond hair, green eyes…but, I do not know…I never knew his name, I only saw them the one time."

"Them?"  Al-jur Dhan pounced on the word.  

"There were two."  This was one thing Mohem apparently was sure of.  "Two boys, there in the White Tower."

Dhan considered this news, turning the information over in his mind.  "Can you speak the Westron tongue well enough to question him?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Mohem nodded eagerly.  "What does my master wish to know?"  

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With a sharp command from the general, Boromir was hauled onto his knees again.  He bit his lip to keep from crying out, and kept his head down this time.  Once more pitiless hands grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look into the general's face.  He tried desperately to keep his expression blank.  The smaller, nervous-looking man smiled ingratiatingly at him.  

"Greetings, my lord." His accent was strong, and he clipped the words off, making them sound strange, but Boromir understood.  He waited, not answering.  The little man continued.  "My Master wishes to make your – um –" he hesitated, searching for the correct word.  "Introduction."  He gestured towards the general.  "He is Al-jur Dhan, general of the Great Army of Harad, favored cousin of Tal-man Kith, King of Dalania, of Near Harad."  He presented this bit of news with a flamboyant wave of his hand and bowed.  He turned to Boromir.  "And you are…?"  His voice rose at the end of his question, anticipating a response.

The son of Denethor said nothing, merely concentrated on keeping all emotion from his face.  He would not answer, remaining stony-faced even as the hands in his hair kept his head pulled back to the breaking point.  He had long ago realized his value as a prisoner, a piece of negotiating capital, and the thought that he might one day be used to betray his father or country had always horrified him.  Boromir had always promised himself if captured he would not reveal his name or position.  

The general roughly yanked the hair he clutched in his fist, smiling as he watched those insolent eyes water in response.  Without loosening his grip, Dhan began steadily pulling, forcing Boromir to lean back at an unnatural angle.  His thighs trembled with the strain.  "Ask him again," Dhan said softly to his interpreter.

Mohem leaned his face closer to Boromir's, his breath hot and rank.  "My lord, he merely wants to know your name.  We wish you no more harm."  

Boromir closed his eyes, feeling his already exhausted muscles protesting as he was forced backward onto his heels, the blood from his injuries running freely down his side and leg.  He tried to remember if he had ever been so tired.  He tried to remember if he had ever known anything other than the hot desert sun, pain and exhaustion.  Hoping for some respite, he allowed himself to go limp, crumpling into a heap at the Haradrim's feet.

But relief did not come.  The Harad general jerked him back up onto his knees, driving his own into the small of Boromir's back to keep him there.  He spit out something in Haradrim and slapped Boromir across the face.  The young captain opened his eyes and saw that his captor was watching him closely.  Under his tiredness, he realized his eyes were smoldering with anger and resentment, and to his surprise, it seemed to please the general.  He released his hold on the blond hair.  

"Where are his things?" he asked.  "I want to see them."  Quickly Boromir's possessions were brought forth and laid before the dark general.  He looked them over carefully.  

These were not the belongings of a regular fighter.  They were expensive, finely made, as would be expected for the son of a great leader.  The traveling cloak was heavy and richly embroidered, the scabbard embossed with the tree of Gondor motif.  The sword was large, its heft being such that only a strong man might wield it.  He gripped it in his hand, feeling its weight, examining the pommel and hilt.

"Ask him again, Mohem," he instructed him, a small smile of anticipation playing across his lips as he experimentally brandished the sword.  Once more the question was put to the Gondorian soldier, once more he kept silent, only his visage betrayed his feelings.  Without warning, Al-jur Dhan swung the sword, using the flat side of the blade to strike his prisoner, the blow landing on the exact spot the arrow had pierced.   Instantly the young man buckled, grinding his face into the sand as he tried to swallow his scream, locking his jaw so that only moans escaped.

With a nod from the general, Mohem dragged Boromir back up, holding his sagging frame erect as Dhan leaned back, continuing to swing the sword from side to side, its passage through the air making a wicked swooping sound.  "Ask him again," he hissed.

Again the question was posed, again there was no answer, again the sword found its target and transformed the soldier into a quivering form in the dirt.  Choking back the sound of his suffering, Boromir shuddered as he was forced upright once more.

"Please, my lord," Mohem's lips were only inches from Boromir's ear.  "Tell him your name, if you value your life."  

The blood was thundering in Boromir's ears as he tried to concentrate on remaining conscious.  The blows from the sword had sent the pain in his hip radiating throughout his entire body, and once again darkness beckoned.  He fought it off, trying to fix his mind on home, on Gondor.  Mustering all his strength, he straightened as best he could and met the gaze of his oppressor. 

The Haradrim general stopped his exercise with the sword and rubbed his hands together.  "I know it is him, Molem.  I feel sure of it."  He stood before his prisoner and regarded him thoughtfully.  "Look at his face, he is not afraid, not of you, barely even of me, although if he were wise, he would be."  He scowled down at his underling.  "THAT is a prince." 

Dhan raised the sword again, noting with satisfaction the shadow of fear that leaped across the green eyes and was quickly hidden.  It almost persuaded him that he might receive an answer if he asked again.  But only almost.  He had to be sure, had to be certain of this one's identity, and right now fear and pain were his greatest weapons.  Putting all of his strength into his arm, he brought the flat of the sword crashing down onto the injured hip a third time.   This time Boromir went down weeping with agony, his body convulsing as the pain rose up and engulfed him.  He lay nerveless in the sand crying brokenly, chest heaving, his hands grasping uselessly behind him.

Dhan gave him an appraising look.  He was exactly where the general of Harad wished him to be.  He leaned down on one knee and took the young man's face in his hands, feeling the muscles recoil faintly at his touch.  He cupped the bloody cheeks between his palms, examining the tear-filled green eyes closely, brushing his thumb across the cheekbone with the tender touch of a lover.  Without shifting his gaze, he spoke to Mohem.  "Tell him," he thought for a moment.  "No, ask him if he wants to see his brother, before I kill him and send the body to his father."

Mohem showed no reaction to his General's command, merely posed the question to the man twitching under his superior's hand.  As he spoke, Al-jur Dhan's black eyes never left his captive.  

Boromir heard the strange voice speaking the words through a roar, his mind only half listening as he struggled to overcome the pain washing over him in sharp waves.  He let the weight of his head rest in the dark hands as the jilted speech of the Haradrim translator slid through his ears, letting it pass without notice, until the word 'brother'.  A hot jolt of fear shot through him then.  Did they have Faramir, too?  He breathed in sharply, a gasp of alarm, pain-fogged eyes suddenly clearing and searching those of the man kneeling before him. 

Dhan smiled then.  He had been right.  This WAS one of the Steward's brats.  He felt a warm thrill of pleasure course down his spine.  This would be quite a prize to take to his King.  "Aha, you have revealed yourself," he said with satisfaction, his hand patting Boromir's cheek in a strangely gentle gesture.  "Your name is not necessary, now that I know who you ARE."

Boromir did not need to understand the words to know he had been tricked.  Guilt and shame flooded through him, momentarily taking his mind from his physical state.  They had known nothing for sure, but their deception had worked, and he had let them know who he was.  He had hoped they did not suspect his identity, but they had, at least the general had, and exhaustion, pain and fear had made him vulnerable, just as the Haradrim had known it would.  His involuntary reaction to the terrible thought that his beloved brother might be suffering his same fate had been enough to expose him, reveal his lineage and give them the answer they sought.  He was angry with himself, but at the same time the knowledge that it had been a lie, that Faramir was safe, left him weak with relief.  He collapsed into the sand as the dark hands released his face, and let the tears of both pain and gratitude slip from behind his eyelids.

Dhan straightened and wiped his palms on his robe.  "Bring him," he said abruptly, turning toward his tent.  He was intercepted by Jekarr, who had been watching the proceeding ever since being relieved of his captive.  "My master, surely you do not believe him to be the Steward's son?  The Lord of Gondor would not be so foolish as to send his heir so near our lands without an escort."  He snorted in disbelief.  "He is merely some clever pretender, a nobleman, perhaps, who would let your own error prolong his life."  Jekarr eyed Boromir, motionless in the sand before him.  

"I think not," said Dhan humorlessly.  "You would kill him for pleasure, Jekarr, and while I admire that most of the time, I am convinced he is indeed the Steward's son, and a worthy prize."  He studied his subordinate officer. "That is, if I can get him back to Dalania, without him dying when that arrowhead in him turns foul."    

Jekarr shrugged.  "I am not usually interested in keeping my enemies alive, Sir." 

Dhan stared at him for another moment before he resumed walking toward his tent, barking an order for Mohem to follow.   The smaller man tried to heave Boromir to his feet, but the Gondorian was beyond walking under his own power.  Calling to another Haradrim for assistance, the two of them each grabbed an arm and dragged him along behind the general.  Entering his tent, he gestured toward one of the main support poles.  "Tie him to that," he ordered, before seating himself on a large cushion.  Before him was a short-legged table covered with manuscripts and maps. 

Without comment, Mohem and his partner lowered their burden to the ground, dumping him onto one of the rugs the carpeted the sandy ground beneath and leaning him against the thick pole.  They quickly loosened the ropes, pulled the semi-conscious man's hands around the pole and retied his bonds tightly. Bowing, they exited the tent. 

The tent was large and well-furnished, and even in the middle of the day the heavy material it was made from kept it cool and dim.  A small chime hanging at the entrance flap tinkled softly as Dhan busied himself with reading reports, intermittently glancing up to study his captive, now slumped against the wooden post.  

He guessed him to be in his mid-twenties, which would be the correct age for him to belong to the Steward.  He was strongly built, broad-chested and well-muscled, with thick arms that the Haradrim General was sure could handle his heavy sword quite efficiently.  The blond hair that now hung in a tangle before his face was long and thick, the color striking the dark-headed Southron as strange and unnatural.  Those odd green eyes were blurry with pain and fatigue as they sporadically wandered unseeing around the room, his weariness and disorientation so complete he did not even realize the general sat only a few feet away.  Dhan watched as the heavy head alternately sank down and was jerked upright as he fought off sleep.  At last, his eyes fell closed and his head drooped for the last time.  As his battered body went slack against the pole behind him, Boromir of Gondor slipped into an uneasy slumber.  

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. For the Love of a Brother

**For the Love of a Brother**

"If I leave by daybreak, I can probably pick up their trail." Faramir pitched his voice low so that the other Rangers gathered nearby would not hear.  He knew they already suspected what he was proposing to his Captain, but there was no need, at least in his mind, to reveal his plans until the time came.  Now, he and Captain Anduron stood close to the small fire kindled earlier, their conversation guarded.****

"My lord," Anduron's voice was sharp even if only little more than a whisper.  "You cannot go into Harad alone.  It is madness."  He crossed his arms and glared at his lieutenant.  "You have never even been across the Poros.  You know nothing of Harad's terrain.  We must return to Minas Tirith and gather reinforcements."  He made a small gesture toward the rest of the troop, waiting in the darkness, huddled around other small fires.  "We have wounded, my lord, and the dead." He nodded his head in the direction of two blanket-covered bodies.  "We are only twenty-six men left at strength.  We cannot protect ourselves in hostile territory, let alone mount a rescue."

"Nonetheless, I cannot go to Minas Tirith," said Faramir, his voice firm.  "If we go back, it will be at least a week before we can return in force.  There will be no trail left to follow."

"Faramir," Anduron dropped the title of courtesy in an attempt to talk sense to his young lord.  "There is little trail to follow now.  Harad is a trackless wasteland, nothing but sand and rock."  He tentatively grasped the arm beside him, feeling the muscles, iron-hard with tension.  "I cannot let you go.  Would you have me face your father and say that I sent you into Harad, knowing the danger?"

Faramir's blue eyes stared into the fire, haunted with terrible visions.  He shuddered slightly before meeting his Captain's gaze.  "Would you have me face him and say that I did not even try to find my brother?"

Anduron looked away, having no reply.  He turned his thoughts to his Company of Rangers.  The two wounded men had been cared for, as much as he was able to provide in the wilds of Ithilien, although Anduron suspected at least one of them would join those wrapped in shrouds before the night was over.  The dead were beyond his help.  As was Boromir, he was convinced.  He sighed with frustration, looking up at the stars.  Beside him, Faramir put his hands behind his back, the crackling flames seeming to rivet his attention.  "He was only here because of me," he murmured.

His Captain shook his head, rejecting the unspoken thought.  "That does not make it your fault, my lord."  He looking at the young man before him, reminding himself he was only twenty, less than half Anduron's own age, nearly a boy to the older man.  Although he had been in the company for little more than six months, Anduron had already grown fond of him.  His quick wit, his intelligence, his way with the men that inspired their love and devotion; these things all marked him as one who would one day be an excellent leader, a brave and loyal soldier of Gondor.  But now, he was just the younger brother, wracked with guilt because the elder had been lost while on a visit to him, taken in a lightning raid by the Haradrim.  "You know that ever does your brother follow his own path," he said.

Faramir gave him a rueful glance, thinking back to Boromir's arrival in the Ranger camp yesterday.  He'd ridden in mid-morning with no advance notice, his huge war horse plowing its stolid way through the quiet forest.  The scouts had known of his imminent arrival an hour before he actually got there.  Grinning mischievously, he'd slid down from the horse and engulfed Faramir in a hug, cuffing him on the shoulder when he finally released him.

"I thought I had better check on you," he said, "see how you are handling this Ranger life," his eyes laughing as he winked at his brother's captain.  "What say you, Anduron?  Will he make a Ranger, or shall I take him back home and return him to the library?"

Anduron had assured him that Faramir was making superb progress as a Ranger, adding that his knowledge of stories and lore kept them far more entertained around a campfire at night than Boromir's own stories of drinking and wenching, which all tended to run together into a muddle after a while.  Boromir had laughed amiably and agreed, saying that was the way he preferred them.  

He had brought a saddle pack full of honeycakes, a welcome treat for the midday meal in addition to the usual roasted deer and bread, enough for themselves and all the men.   They had eaten, Boromir joking good-naturedly with the Rangers, and afterward Anduron had tactfully found an errand and left the brothers sitting alone to talk.  They had remained silent for a moment, however and Faramir squirmed as he felt his older brother's appraising gaze.  "What?"

"You look good."  Boromir looked him up and down once more and smiled.  "You've gained weight.  That's not right.  No one should gain weight out here in the woods!"  He reached over and squeezed Faramir's knee with affection.  "How are you, really?" His voice was suddenly serious, his interest evident in his green eyes.

Faramir thought a moment before nodding happily.  "I am good.  I like it here, most of the time.  It is so quiet, and beautiful."  He stopped all of a sudden and glanced over to make sure Boromir was not amused by his admission.  To his pleasure, his brother was listening intently, no humor evident on his face.  "It feels right, for me to be here."

"I am glad, then," said Boromir.  "I hate having you so far from home, and never getting to see you, but if this is the right place, then you must stay."  He hesitated.  "Father sends his greetings."

Blue eyes met green ones and a look of suspicion crossed Faramir's face.  "Indeed."

"You sound just like him when you say that." Boromir needled, knowing it would annoy his little brother.  It did.

"No, I don't."  Faramir frowned.  "And I am guessing Father does not send his greetings, because I am guessing that he does not know you are here."  

The almost imperceptible pause before his brother answered showed Faramir he was right.  

"I told him I had several errands to attend to, that I needed to be away from the city for a week or so, perhaps I neglected to say if I would be visiting YOU," said Boromir airily.  "But had I mentioned it, he would most certainly have sent greetings."

"Indeed." Realizing what he had said, Faramir quickly shot a warning glance at his brother, his brows furrowed.  Boromir wisely remained silent.  "Boromir," Faramir's voice softened as he continued, "you do not need to keep watch over me."

"What?" Boromir looked indignant.  "This is the first time-"

"You were here two months ago." 

"That was to bring dispatches to your Captain." His face was the picture of innocence.

"You also showed up only a month after I left Minas Tirith." There was amusement in Faramir's voice.  "I am not stupid, brother.  I know when I am being chaperoned."  He leaned back against a tree and stretched his legs out before him, pushing his tousled reddish blond hair out of his eyes.  "Understand me, I appreciate your concern, but –" he gave a short nod toward the other Rangers further away, "it is rather embarrassing."

Boromir grinned and shrugged.  "In truth, I miss you."  He methodically began to crack his knuckles, drawing a wince from Faramir.  "It is strange to come home and you not be there.  I get lonely."

"You do not have to tell me how lonely it can be." There was a hard edge to Faramir's voice as he thought of the emptiness of the White Tower without a brother to talk to.    He quickly changed the subject.  "We have been seeing quite a bit of activity across the Poros."

His brother's face lit up.  "Haradrim?"  At Faramir's nod he grew thoughtful.  "They used to come across the river frequently, but I have not heard of any movements for a couple of years or so.  Have you tangled with any yet?"

"Twice," said Faramir.  "But both times they disappeared into the trees after just a few minutes."  He hesitated.  "It's different than killing orcs," he said quietly, "they are men."

"No, little brother," said Boromir with conviction, his voice suddenly serious, "they are not.  When you have seen how they slaughter our people and butcher their captives, you will know they are not men."

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Faramir stared into the fire, remembering their conversation yesterday.  Now his brother was in the hands of the Southrons, and his Captain was telling him to turn away, wait for reinforcements from Minas Tirith, let days pass while Boromir was taken deeper and deeper into the enemy's own land.  His mind would not allow him to entertain the thought that he could already be dead.  He chewed his lip and watched the flames leap and twist before him.

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When Boromir's horse had come ambling back into the camp, covered with dried sweat and foam and missing his rider, Anduron had quickly sent the Rangers out on a search.  Boromir had left their camp only a few hours before, and his trail was easy to follow, especially for those among them with years of tracking skills.  Faramir was already uneasy, remembering as he thought back that his brother had not even been wearing his armor, merely the heavy traveling cloak that their father had presented to him upon attaining the rank of Captain earlier in the year.  Apparently he had felt no apprehension over a two-day ride through a relatively peaceful part of Ithilien.  Faramir's stomach churned with each step he took.

At the edge of a meadow only a few miles from their camp they found their first sign of trouble.  The knee-high grass was flattened and broken, the damp ground churned into mud and gouged by the sharp hooves of desert ponies.  A broken arrow lay tangled in the grass, and further on a sharp-eyed Ranger found one of the crude bamboo spears the Haradrim often carried, shattered and crushed into the weeds by the passage of hooves and booted feet.  The tracks led south, toward the Poros River, and Harad.

Without a sound the Rangers spread out, their arrows nocked and ready, senses alert and on edge.  Faramir could feel his heart pounding and the slight queasiness in his belly that had accompanied his other two meetings with the dark men of the south.  They approached the riverbank, hearing the splash and gurgle of water through the stand of trees that guarded its edge.  Easing into the dim light under the trees, Faramir waited a moment while his eyes adjusted.  It was silent, except for the sound of the river, each Ranger treading on noiseless feet. 

The Rangers and the Haradrim rear guard saw each other at the same time, each company of men loosing their arrows at the other seemingly simultaneously.  Faramir heard men cry out, heard the sibilant whispers of arrows threading through the trees, heard the soft hum of his own bowstring as he drew and fired at enemy figures.  Behind him he heard the cries of a wounded man, but he moved forward, continuing to harry the enemy as they slowly pulled back across the river.  He felt his heart thudding in his ears and his own labored breathing as he sought to kill the men before him.  Suddenly in front of him there appeared a dark face, eyes wide and black.  By reflex, Faramir drew an arrow and let it fly, hardly thinking about what he was doing until it was buried in the man's throat and he fell.  He passed the body without a glance, scanning the trees around him for further enemy threats.

When he reached the riverbank, only those Haradrim felled by arrows remained, their bodies resting among the mud and rocks along the river.  Faramir counted five dead.  He saw no wounded, and wondered briefly if that was because their comrades had recovered them, or if some of the dead had been dispatched by his fellow Rangers. 

Anduron approached him.  "They were only a small group, left behind to see if anyone had followed.  I think we got them all," he said with conviction.  "They had no ponies, so whoever was riding those had already crossed over."  He pointed to the opposite bank where a muddy track was evident leaving the water and leading into the sparse trees and scrub growing there.  "You can see where they all came out of the water."  

Faramir splashed across the shallows and climbed up the bank.  From that vantage point he could see far across the plains of Harad, dry, sandy, dotted with stunted bushes and rank grass.  No sign of any retreating Haradrim raiding party, however.  No figures, man or animal, no cloud of dust to indicate a group traveling across the plain.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anduron coming to join him.  "If we started now, we could catch them," he said.

Anduron shook his head.  "No, my lord.  We have wounded to care for, and Garith is missing."  He looked behind him, watching the rest of the company as they regrouped on the opposite riverbank, and rubbed his mouth.  "Damron is dead, and I fear Athendor will follow soon."   He saw Faramir's eyes scanning the country ahead of him.  "My lord," he said softly.  No answer.  "My lord!"  Faramir dragged his gaze back to his Captain.  "We need to get the injured back to camp."  He saw the protest forming and spoke swiftly to cut him off.  "LIEUTENANT, we cannot follow, not now."

The commanding tone of the older man broke through to Faramir and without a word he turned and retreated across the Poros, immediately assisting in the care and comfort of the wounded.  He remained quiet as the company made its way back to the campsite. His companions knew where his mind was fixed, and left him to his own thoughts. 

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Now, as the night sky blazed above them, the Captain and his Lieutenant continued their hushed argument.

"Do you forbid me, then?" Faramir's voice was tight, his anger and frustration evident to Anduron, who felt nothing but sympathy for his young officer.  He sighed and shook his head.

"I do not know what to do, my lord," he said truthfully.  "If you were just another man, just a plain man in my company, I would forbid it without a moment's notice, and without regret.  I would say to you that – forgive me," he apologized, "your brother is already dead and your death will not help him." He saw Faramir flinch at the word 'dead', his hands ball unconsciously into fists.  "But I do not know that I can forbid a son of the Steward from anything, or that I want to forbid you from seeking the Heir."  He shrugged and paced slowly before the fire.  "If he were dead, we should have found his body by the river," he said thoughtfully.  "The Haradrim do not usually take prisoners.  Perhaps they know who they have and have taken him into their country to try and use as a pawn in some future political maneuvering."

"Do you believe that?"  Faramir's icy blue eyes held his, demanding an honest answer.  

Anduron hesitated before shaking his head.  "No, my lord, I do not."  He saw the disappointment fill his lieutenant's face.  "That is not their way.  I believe that if they have taken him, and he is still alive, it is only because they have some special devilry planned, and that he soon will be dead.  They worship evil things in the southern lands, and ally themselves with the Dark Lord.  Who knows what fate awaits those carried into the heart of the desert."  He stopped before Faramir and grasped him by the shoulders.  "If you go into Harad, Faramir, I fear it will mean your death, also.  I cannot go home to tell your father both of you perished at the hands of the Southrons." 

"Then come with me," said Faramir quietly.  Seeing the shock on his Captain's face he gave a grim and ghastly smile.  "For I am going, Anduron, at daybreak.  I know in my heart that once the chance to follow them is lost, so is Boromir.  I cannot wait as days pass, wait for reinforcements from Minas Tirith to arrive.  I am going, alone if I must, but I would welcome a companion.  My father would look kindly upon any who would help deliver my brother back safely to his arms."

Anduron looked at him in amazement.  Who knew the honeyed tongue of the formidable Steward had been passed to his younger son?  He was offering him a chance to both avoid facing the anger of Denethor, and if their mission was successful, to be known as one of those who had rescued his beloved son.  True, it was also a chance to die plucked and skewered in some alien Southron ritual, he thought.  But that might not be so different than facing the Lord of Gondor with news of the death of both his sons, Anduron felt.  He was appalled to find himself actually considering going, and gave a quick nod of admiration to Faramir's powers of persuasion.  

Nay, said a small voice in his mind.  It is the power of love that drives him.  He goes because he must, because he cannot conceive of not going.  And because he loves so deeply, and so selflessly, he draws out the best in others.  Anduron suddenly realized he was going to follow his young lord into the wilds of Harad, for no other reason than the love between the brothers that he had seen shine on both their faces so many times.  

He released his grip on Faramir and stepped back, bowing his head.  "I will come with you, my lord."  He saw the surprise on Faramir's face and knew that he was pleased as well.  "Let us inform the others and make our plan."  

Together, they turned and approached the rest of the company.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Kindness of an Enemy Hand

**Kindness of an Enemy Hand**

Dusk was falling as Shushuah entered her father's tent.  She hung one of the lamps she carried on the elaborately worked bamboo stand near the door, and approached him as he sat at his work table surrounded by the usual piles of dispatches, maps and other important papers.  In one fluid, graceful motion she knelt at his feet, rose and pressed her cheek to his in greeting.  "Good evening, my Father," she said in a soft voice, placing the other lamp on the table before him.

Al-jur Dhan absently returned his daughter's greeting.  "Good evening, 'Shuah," he returned without looking up from his paperwork.  Shushuah began moving some of the papers, piling them neatly.  That caught his attention.  "What – don't move those," he said peevishly, retrieving them from her grasp.  "I need those."

"It will soon be time for the evening meal," said his daughter, continuing to stack the papers on the edge of the table.  "We need a place to eat."  She gathered several large maps in her arms and turned to put them on a small trunk nearby.  It was then she saw the sleeping form of a man sprawled on the floor.  "Oh!" she said in surprise.  Placing the maps on the trunk she stepped cautiously across the rug-covered ground and looked down.  She turned back to her father.  "Who is this?" she asked in a quiet voice.

Dhan put an elbow on the table, rubbing his forefinger across his upper lip.  "That is a son of Gondor, 'Shuah, some of the spawn of the north.  What do you think of him?"  His black eyes gleamed with curiosity as he watched her reaction. 

Shushuah had never seen a man from Gondor; never seen anyone not of the race of Harad.  Now she knelt down and studied the man before her.   She would guess him to be in his twenties, a trifle older than she.  His skin was pale, and; "His hair is strange."

"Many in the north have hair that color," said Dhan, "Some have hair even lighter than his, nearly the color of gold."

Shushuah's mouth thinned as she pressed her lips together in suspicion, wondering if her father was speaking the truth or toying with her, mocking her ignorance.  She turned back to examine the captive more closely.  "He is wounded," she said, her eyes taking in the various injuries, "and someone has beaten him."

"Jekarr caught him," Dhan returned evenly.  

Shushuah considered this, noting that her father had not said his second-in-command was responsible for the injuries.  She decided not to press for further information and instead said nothing for a long while, examining everything about the foreigner with her sharp eyes.  His face was scratched and bruised and crusted with dried blood, some of which still oozed slowly from his nose, while the wounds on his leg and ribs had bled enough to trail across his body and leave dark wet spots on the rug beneath him.  Almost every part of him that Shushuah could see had some sort of mark evident on the pale white skin.  

His back was pushed up against the support pole of the tent, with his legs folded partly under him, the injured one not held as closely as the other, while his hands were pulled behind the pole and tied together, keeping him from leaning too far one way or another.  His head lay awkwardly to one side, looking decidedly uncomfortable.  Shushuah was tempted to reach forward and move it to another spot, but hesitated, wondering what her father would think.  She was spared having to decide whether or not to do it by his sudden startle as he awoke.  He jerked slightly and his eyes opened wide for a moment before the heavy lids slid back down halfway, giving him a dazed, bewildered look.  His brow wrinkled in confusion as he looked at her.

Shushuah drew back in astonishment.  Green eyes?  Eyes the color of new leaves as they appeared on a barolive tree?  She looked to her father for explanation, noting that he had risen from his cushion and now stood above her.  "His eyes…" she said faintly.

"Yes, what do you think of that?"  She could tell he was amused by her surprise.  "Some of their people have blue ones, too, or a pale brown."  He gave a laugh that held little humor.  "Some of them are darker, but by and large they are an odd-looking race."

Looking back at the prisoner, Shushuah saw those green eyes fill with alarm as her father spoke.  The muscles of the man's throat rippled as he swallowed hard and forced himself to look up, then his gaze faltered and fell back to the floor.  Her father grunted in approval.

"You are learning, aren't you?" he said, reaching out and patting the fair head with his hand before it was jerked away angrily and the young man clenched his teeth and raised his strange eyes to Dhan's again.  Dhan said nothing, only let one side of his mouth curl up in wry amusement.  "Yes, a prince." He said softly.

Boromir let his eyes close for a moment, both to shut out the sight of the Haradrim general and to try desperately to remember – anything.  He remembered leaving the Ranger camp, riding through the woods, seeing dark faces in the trees.  After that only broken shards of memory, fighting, a searing pain in his hip and thigh, being flung over a horse's back, dumped in the sand.  The man with black eyes speaking, and pain, like a living thing, biting and tearing at him.  Talk of killing and Faramir – his heart beat wildly for a moment before the rest of memory surfaced.  No, it had been a lie, a trick to learn his identity.  He rested his head back against the pole behind him, feeling the tender lump there.  When had that happened?  Where was he?

"He is a prince?" Shushuah asked, watching as he struggled to orient himself.

"He is the son of the leader of Gondor."

"What are you going to do with him?"  She was almost certain she knew the answer before the question was out of her mouth.  

"He goes to the King," said Dhan, "and then, perhaps, Mordor."

The green eyes flew open as the captive recognized the word and Shushuah felt a pang of sympathy at the look of horror on his face.  

"Pardon me, my Master?" The guard who always stood outside the tent flap looked in.  "There is a messenger here for you, sir."  A slight man wrapped in a dusty cloak peered over the guard's shoulder.  

"Send him in," said Dhan.  He looked down at Shushuah.  "Give him some water, and something to eat."  He returned to his seat at the table.  "See if you can clean him up, if you want."  He waved the messenger in to him.

Shushuah rose immediately and went to the water skin at its usual place in the rear of the tent.  Pouring a cupful, she returned to the prisoner and gently lifted it to his lips.  He drew back and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes.  "It is water," she said in an encouraging voice.  Speaking softly so her father would not hear, she whispered the word in Westron.  "Water."

Boromir looked at the girl, mystified.  Who was she?  How would she know the word for 'water'?  The black-eyed man's voice was murmuring quietly now, speaking to someone at the other side of the tent and Boromir felt his insides quiver as he listened.  He was afraid.  The sound had made his blood go cold seconds ago, and even after he had made himself look upward into those pitiless black eyes, he had been unable to keep from dropping his gaze.  Only the man's condescending pat on his head had angered him enough to let him meet his eyes once more.  His body and mind were tense with fear, and he hated himself for it.

"My lord," the girl before him said faintly, again in his own tongue.  She offered the cup again.  "It is water."  She spoke once more in her own language, loudly for her father and the other man to hear.  "Water, come now."  She looked at him, trying to reassure him with her eyes and a smile.  

Hesitantly, Boromir leaned forward a little and let her raise the edge of the cup to his mouth.  The cool water slid across his tongue and throat, easing the parched membranes and washing the taste of blood from his lips.  He drank it all, letting her tip the cup as he swallowed the last precious drops.  She smiled at him and went to refill it.  He drank all of that one, too, and when he finished he let his head fall back against the pole again and breathed out a sigh.   He closed his eyes, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest and the dizziness in his head.  He must be close to done in if he felt this badly upon awakening, he thought.  He had lost a lot of blood, he was sure of that, judging by how he felt and the amount of it he could see smeared across his body.  Every bit of him hurt, it was only a question of degree.  His ribs and head were merely a dull, burning ache, while an experimental shift of his leg brought the pain in his hip roaring back to full strength.  He groaned and tried to concentrate on remaining still, feeling the weariness already beginning to creep back over him.  

Shushuah returned the cup to its place, noticing her father and the messenger were now intently pouring over a map the newcomer had produced.  She could see her father's brows were knitted together and his questions were sharp and short. The smaller man was trying to answer him, but Dhan kept interrupting, his voice irritated, until at last with an exclamation of anger, he snatched the map and a letter from the table and stalked from the tent, trailed by the cowed courier.  "I have to speak with Jekarr," he threw over his shoulder on his way out.  She bowed her head to acknowledge his words.  Going to the back of the tent, she picked up a deep bowl and with a quick glance at her charge, who had not changed his position, she slipped out of the tent flap.

At the side of the tent she filled the bowl with warm water from a black waterskin hung there, watching the last streaks of red fade from the sky.  The strength of the sun assured any desert traveler with the right knowledge an unending supply of heated water.  This skin had hung all day and the water was hot.  Returning to the tent with her bowl, Shushuah took a small cloth and returned to the Gondorian, exactly as she had left him.  

She did not realize he had dozed off again until the unexpected touch of the warm water on his face caused him to wrench away from the wet cloth in alarm.  Shushuah pulled back in surprise and consternation as he was brought up short by his bound hands.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said softly, seeing his face turn ashen with agony as each wound was re-opened and the pain renewed.  He hunched there for a moment, his face drained of color, and she waited, regretting that she had caused him more hurt.  When his breathing steadied, she soaked the cloth again and once more touched it to his face.  This time he sat motionless as she tried to remove as much dried blood and grime as she could without scrubbing too hard at the scratched flesh.  He regarded her through his unusual green eyes as she used the washcloth with careful hands, brushing back the soft, blond hair to reach all of his face, repeatedly rinsing and cleaning his cuts and bruises.

Boromir tried to put his mind into working order.  His light-headedness had caused him to drift away in the few moments the woman was gone, only to be awakened by both the shock of the water and the crushing pain that had followed his sudden movement.  Now he could do little more than sit quietly and try to form a coherent thought.  When he finally did so, it was merely the conviction that nothing had ever felt as good as having his face washed by this woman.  Her hands were soft and tender as she took care to cleanse each cut thoroughly without causing further pain.  Her black eyes were narrowed intently as she tended to her duty, every once in a while shifting back to look into his face as if checking for a reaction.  Her fingers moved through his hair and found the swollen lump there, causing him to flinch. "I'm sorry," she said quietly in Westron, looking sideways at him as she rinsed her cloth.  

She was younger than her patient, tiny and petite, with dark, dusky skin.  Her long hair was covered by a scarf tied around her head that hung down to her waist, but the few hairs that escaped were black and curly.  Her eyes matched her hair and were slightly tilted at the ends, as if she had just finished smiling.  The bright robes she wore, a mixture of blues, covered her completely, so that only her hands were in view, although her wrists were circled with bracelets of metal and ivory and several brilliant rings graced her hands.   She continued with her sponge bath, moving slowly down Boromir's neck and chest, always keeping her touch feather light to avoid hurting him.    

Rinsing her cloth again, she noted the water in the bowl was now cloudy with blood.  "I'll be back," she said, hoping he would understand, and went outside to replenish it with fresh.  It was dark out, now, and with the heat of the sun gone, a chill was in the air and a cool gentle wind was blowing.  Shushuah took a deep breath.  Why wouldn't he answer?  Was she saying the words wrong?  If she could just get him to speak before her father returned…

As she slipped through the tent flap, she noticed that this time he was sitting up straighter, his eyes on the flap, looking for her.  She smiled again in greeting and resumed her position before him as she turned her attention to his ribs, trying to wash all of the sand and dirt out of the jagged gash torn across them, feeling him tense and cringe away involuntarily.  He groaned under his breath several times, but said nothing.   She looked around her a moment, wondering if there was anything in the tent that could be used as a bandage, but could think of nothing.  She would look for something later, she promised herself, sure that a covering of some kind would help keep it cleaner, and at least staunch the blood that still trickled down his side.  

Her smiles had cheered Boromir more than he could have ever imagined. They were the only friendly gestures he had received since his capture and he held onto them like a lifeline.  Still, a warning sounded in his mind, pushing its way through the fog and confusion.  He knew nothing of her save that she was linked somehow with the Haradrim general.  Her kindness might all be a ploy, another trick to fool him into lowering his guard.  That would not be too difficult in his present state, he knew.  He tensed, trying to overcome a sudden wave of pain that licked across him as she examined his ribs once more, her fingers gently pressing against the bleeding gash.

"Mistress?" A hesitant voice from the front of the tent let her know the servants were arriving with the evening meal.  

"Just put it on the table," she instructed them, standing up and motioning toward it as a thin older woman carried in a tray with steaming dishes and bowls on it, followed by a small boy bearing another similarly loaded.  They placed the trays where she directed and bowed, leaving on silent feet.

Resuming her work, Shushuah gave the man another smile, then took a breath to get her courage up and moved to his side to examine the hip injury.  She knew it was the worst by the amount of blood that had soaked his breeches and pooled beneath him while he slept.  Now, she tried to pull the blood-soaked cloth apart where it had been torn, getting a glimpse of bloody, shredded flesh and greenish black bruising.  Her fingers brushed across the wound, a simple examining touch, but even this drew an anguished moan from her patient.  Quickly looking up, she saw his face twist with agony.  She pulled her hand away, once more appalled that she had caused him hurt, but then looked back at the hip.  It was ghastly-looking.   She tried again to pull at his breeches so she could see the entire injury, but he gave a deep moan and hitched himself away from her.  She looked at him in dismay.  "I must clean this," she said in a firm voice, wondering whether she spoke to him or to herself.  Reaching for his breeches once more, she realized she did not know if she had spoken in Haradrim or Westron, so she repeated the sentence in his tongue.  He looked at her, pain and fear plain in his strange green eyes.  

"Please, don't," he whispered.

Shushuah halted her hand's movement toward him and stared in shock.  He had understood her earlier attempts!  She slid her gaze toward the wound and then back to him.  "My lord, you are hurt," she said slowly, hoping her accent was not too bad.  "I need to cleanse this wound or it will turn foul."  

He met her eyes and she could see he was already worn out between loss of blood, his earlier treatment and her clumsy nursing attempts.  She realized he was probably close to reaching the limit of what he could take today.  

"Please," was all he said.  

She considered, then nodded slowly, allowing him to relax for the moment.   "We will do it later."  She gathered up her bowl and cloths as he slumped against the post in relief.    She slid them under her father's work table and then sat down before him again. 

Boromir was ashamed of himself.  He should not have spoken, should not have let her know he understood her words.  But having his injured hip poked and prodded had brought back the memory of the earlier, rougher handling.  That had unnerved him, and before he realized what he was doing, he had spoken, no, he had begged.  He felt shame; and a sense of giddy relief.  She would not hurt him anymore for now.   That was enough. He felt his tense muscles loosen slightly, only gradually realizing she was watching him.

"I am Shushuah," she said softly.  

The Gondorian seemed to think before shifting his gaze away and staring at the back of the tent for a moment.  He knew what she was hoping for.  Looking back at her, he shook his head apologetically, wincing at the sharp pain it produced.  He had already let her know he understood, but he could not risk giving his name.  "I cannot," he said in a quiet voice.  

Shushuah nearly clapped her hands with joy.  He was talking to her!  At least, he was talking enough to tell her that he could not tell her anything.  She noted he had used the word 'cannot', and she took his meaning to be that he would not allow himself.  She nodded as though she had expected as much, which in truth she had.  

"My father already knows who are you, my lord."  She saw his expression change as she spoke.

"Your father?"  The look of alarm she had seen earlier when he had heard her father speak crossed his face.  He was suddenly anxious, wary.

"My father, Al-jur Dhan, General of the Great Army of Harad, favored cousin of Tal-man Kith, King of Dalania, of Near Harad, most beloved of the King."  She recited the titles that always seemed to accompany her father's name, wondering if they would mean anything to the foreigner.  He listened but showed no recognition.  "My father says you are a prince, the son of the King of Gondor."

The blond man gave a slight, strained smile at that.  "Not a prince," he said in a voice she could barely hear, "Not a king."     

"Well," Shushuah searched her memory for the correct word.  "The ruler, the chief, perhaps king is not the right word.  But there is a leader, and my father says you are his son."

He nodded slightly, but whether to acknowledge the truth of her words or merely that she was speaking, she did not know.   He let his eyes close and let out a soft grunt, shifting against the post, and they sat in silence for a moment.  She was wondering if he had fallen asleep again when he raised his eyelids and stared at her, catching her in his odd emerald gaze.

"You speak Westron." It was a statement, not a question, his words slightly slurred with fatigue.  

"One of the men in the troop taught me," she answered, "but my father does not know.  He would be quite angry, as he thinks Mohem is a bad influence and I should not be near him."  She saw him fading into sleep again.  "My lord?"

"Hmm?" His eyes opened as mere slits.

"My lord, I must look at your wound, please."  She retrieved her bowl, hopeful the water was still warm, and slid it closer to him.  He tensed again and groaned as she grasped his ankle and pulled his leg straight.  "I will try not to hurt you."

He gave her a look that said he knew she would not be successful in that, but made no effort to pull away as she put her hands on the bloody fabric once more.  She pulled hard, feeling it tear slightly in her hands, and hearing his stifled moans as she did so.  When enough of the wound was visible, she soaked her cloth and wiped gently.  But here the wound was swollen and tender, and the entry hole of, she guessed, an arrow, was surrounded by discolored flesh, the bruises covering the entire hip, an area larger than both her hands spread out.  No matter how gentle she tried to keep her touch, he jerked and moaned and ground his teeth.  Twice she heard his whispered plea, "no, don't", but he said no more after that and she continued.  At length she realized there was no exit wound, that some part of the arrow or arrowhead was still buried in him.  She bit her lip, knowing this was dangerous; the leather bindings that held the arrow heads onto the arrows, the wooden shafts themselves, all were prime agents of infection in the wound.

"Who pulled this out?" she asked him, worry in her voice.  

"Soldiers," he panted, his voice faint.

"But not the arrowhead?" He did not answer, but she already knew.  Something was still in this wound; something was keeping all his nerves on edge and causing intense pain with any movement.  Something that was already beginning to fester.

"I cannot help this," Regret and fear were clear in her voice.  "When we get you to Dalania, the healers there can take care of this."  She counted quickly in her head – probably at least eight days to the city, too many, too many for her.  "My lord," she spoke urgently, suddenly afraid for him.  "My lord!"    

No answer came from him, he was insensible again, his head back in the same awkward position she had first seen it.  Steeling herself, she used his unconsciousness to clean out the entry hole the best she could, knowing warm water would do little against whatever was in there.  He whimpered quietly but did not awaken.  As she worked, she examined the bruises.  Whoever had administered the beating he had taken had purposely concentrated on this site, she was sure of it.  The idea of what a strong blow would feel like to those already frantic nerves made Shushuah cringe.  An errant thought went through her head about who might be responsible, but she ignored it.  When she finished, she pushed the bowl under the table again and regarded her prisoner.  His brows were furrowed and he was murmuring in his sleep, his body pressed uncomfortably against the wood behind him, his hands still tied tightly around the pole.    

Shushuah hesitated only a moment, then bent and worked at the knots in the rope binding his hands.  They were tight, and the rope was rough, she could see where it had already rubbed raw places on his wrists.  At length, however, she had the rope loosened and pulled the limp hands forward, barely catching his sleeping form as he slid sideways.   Carefully she eased him down onto the ground, her hand smoothing his blond hair without realizing it.  She laid him on his side, regretting that this put his cut ribs against the sandy rug, but it kept the tender hip elevated.  She brushed back his hair again and this time let her hand linger for a moment on his cheek, searching for the first signs of fever.  He felt cool, however, and she was encouraged.  Perhaps it was not as dire as she thought.  Maybe the men of Gondor were not susceptible to fevers.  She looked at her hand, dark against his pale face.  Strange looking, foreign, an enemy, yet she found herself drawn to him.  How else to explain the fact that he now slept here freed from his bonds?  How else to explain her already growing concern about his health?  She shook her head as she considered her own foolishness, then went to eat her supper, her eyes never leaving his sleeping form.

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Boromir stood before his brother, in a strange city.  He did not know where they were, but the city had long been besieged, its buildings and streets ravaged.  Faramir looked tired and worried as he leaned forward and gave his brother a hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek, then turned and walked away through the ruined streets.  Boromir tried to follow, but someone was holding him back, their hands preventing him from following. "Wait, Faramir!" he called, "wait!"  But his brother kept walking, never looking back.  Boromir struggled against those who held him.  "Wait, brother!"  He turned.  "Let  me go!  Release me, I say…"  He called again to Faramir, "Brother, wait!"

He opened his eyes to find Shushuah holding him down, her dark eyes full of concern.  "My lord, it is a dream.  Wake up."  She pressed him back against the rug.  "Shhh, it is a dream."

He relaxed a moment, feeling his heart gradually slow from its frenzied thumping.  Struggling to sit up he realized his hands were free and his head was pounding at the same time.  He drew an unsteady breath, starting the pain back up in his ribs, and rubbed his face with his hands.  He hated feeling like this, weak, helpless, sick.  He did not even have the energy to be angry, he thought irritably.  He suddenly realized the woman was gently rubbing the back of his neck where he sat hunched over.  "Just a dream," she said softly.  "Your brother is safe."

It took him a moment to sort her words through his tired mind.  "What?"

"You called out to a brother," She spoke in a comforting tone.  "I am sure he is safe."  

"He will come for me," said Boromir suddenly, the knowledge coming with startling clarity, something he had known in the back of his mind that had only crept forward while he slept.  Faramir would come for him.  He knew it with utmost surety, though he could not say how.  His heart shrank within his chest to think of Faramir crossing the desert, risking, probably losing his life to search for him.  Their father would be devastated to lose them both.  Boromir covered his face with his hands and let a sob escape from him.  He had never felt so helpless and alone in his life.  

"My lord."  Shushuah's gentle voice came from behind him where she was still rubbing his neck with a comforting hand.  "Can you eat something?   It will help you."

He shook his head, but she moved away from him, going to the table and bringing back a wooden plate with meat and some sort of cooked grain on it.  "Try, my lord, it will help."  She gently pulled his hands away from his face, pinched off a tiny bit of meat and held it before him.  "Just a bite," she coaxed.  

He reached out, feeling the stiffness in his shoulder muscles, and took the meat and put it in his mouth.  "Good," said Shushuah.  "A little more, now."  She offered him another small piece which he also ate.  "There."  She went to put the plate into his hand, but noted that he was extremely unsteady and changed her mind, laying it on the ground before him.  "Eat what you can, you will feel much better."  She went to the back of the tent and poured another cup of cold water, bringing it back and handing it to him.  "Drink this, you need water, you have lost a great deal of blood."

He ate and drank silently, realizing what she said was true.  He had had nothing to eat since a morning meal with the Rangers, yesterday? Today? He couldn't remember. The food was odd, spicy, but it filled him, and would help him regain some strength.  He glanced around the room uncertainly.  "How long - ?"

"You weren't asleep very long, less than an hour," she said, noting his search.  "My father is still gone." She had poured herself a cup of water and was sitting near him, watching him eat.   "Your brother, he is younger or older?"  He looked at her in confusion.  "Your brother," she reminded him, "you were dreaming of him."  She saw him hesitate and tried to reassure him.  "I will not tell my father."

Boromir only heard half of her words, he was trying to remember the answer to her question.  Was Faramir younger or older?  He should know this!  He concentrated on bringing his thoughts together, trying to ignore the swooping dizziness.  At last he found the answer in his dazed head.  He was the elder, which meant Faramir was the - 

"Younger," he said.  

She nodded.  "I had a younger brother," she said, her eyes becoming distant.  "And an older one."  She looked into her cup when she saw he was listening. "There was a great sickness in our city last year.  Many died.  Both of my brothers, and my mother."  Her voice faltered.  "That is why I travel with my father.  We are all that each other have left."  She drank from her cup and frowned.   "But he is not the same.  Losing them all changed something in him, he-" She broke off, deciding this was not for the ears of a stranger.  "He loves me, I know it.  He just forgets sometimes."  She changed the subject.  "Does your father the King love you?"

Boromir reached up to rub his head with a shaky hand.  "…not a king…"  He seemed to think hard for a moment.  "My mother died - long ago."  He wanted to say more but it was taking a tremendous amount of energy just to keep his thoughts together.  She looked down the plate and was pleased to see he had eaten most of the food she had put there.  He picked up the cup and was drinking again when Al-jur Dhan walked into the tent.

In mere seconds he had taken in the scene, crossed the tent and thrown Boromir to the ground, his body weight holding him down as the injured man cried out.  "What is going on here?" he demanded of his daughter.  Shushuah had leaped to her feet at his arrival, and was now pulling at his arm.  

"Don't, my Father, don't hurt him.  He was not doing anything."  She was imploring him with both her voice and her eyes.  "You said to feed him and he could not eat with his hands tied."  

Dhan looked at her with anger and disbelief.  "Let him eat off the floor like the dog he is," he said with disgust.  "You are a foolish girl.  He could be dangerous."  

Shushuah looked down at the blond head crushed into the sand by her father's hand, the face rigid with fear and twitching with pain.  "My father, look at him, he is hurt – "

Dhan got to his feet, took a handful of hair and jerked Boromir back to the wooden post.  Pulling the Gondorian's arms back as hard as he could, he retied the knots, not caring if the rope bit into the flesh.  Boromir gave a little cry and Dhan slapped him as he stepped around the pole.  Pointing his finger at his daughter, Dhan spoke with measured tones.  "I do not ever want to see him untied again, do you understand me?"

"Yes, my Father," she answered in a whisper, looking past him to see Boromir's green eyes fixed on her, letting her know he was grateful for her kindness.  They filled with something close to terror as Dhan whirled around to his prisoner.  

"And you," he planted a vicious kick in the sensitive hip, bringing a scream from Boromir.   Grabbing the blond hair once again, he pulled Boromir's face up and glared at him.  "I'll kill you if you touch her."  His threat was spoken in Haradrim, but easily understood by his captive, now shaking with fear.  Dhan released his hold and Boromir immediately lowered his head and curled his body against the pole, shuddering.  Another strategically placed kick from the general brought the food he had just eaten retching up into the sand, and reduced him to muffled sobbing.  Shushuah felt the tears gather in her eyes, and she fled to her sleeping couch nearby, pulling the dividing curtains around her.  

Dhan stood for a moment, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of weeping coming from his daughter's bed, and the stifled cries of the captive before him.   Crossing to his work table, he piled a plate with the food still waiting there, spread out a large map and the messages he had received earlier, and began making battle plans.

**********************************************************************************************************************

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Across the Plains of Harad

**Across the Plains of Harad**

Shushuah awoke to the sound of the camp being dismantled.  She could already hear her father's voice, making demands and giving orders as she quickly dressed and packed her personal things, leaving the rest for the servants to gather together.  The sides of the tent began to droop slightly as it was taken down, allowing in the thin grey light of dawn.  Pulling apart her dividing curtains, she stepped forward to the main area of the tent, her eyes drawn immediately to the support pole.  There was no one there.  For a moment she froze, feeling her heart inexplicably begin pounding.  Her father walked past her as he pointed out a trunk to a thin man, ordering it to be loaded separately.  

"Father," she broke into his conversation as soon as he took a breath.  His look told her he did not approve.  "Where is he?"

Finishing his sentence, Al-jur Dhan glared at his daughter.  "He is not your concern."  He turned back and resumed his instructions to the servant.  Shushuah left the tent torn between anger at her father, and fear for the prisoner.  She stepped out into the chill morning air, and found him only a few yards away, kneeling in the dirt with her father's door guard keeping watch over him.  His hands were still tied behind him and his head was bowed, his fair hair hanging before his face.  

She went to him immediately, using her own version of her father's glare when the guard frowned at her.  Kneeling beside the captive in the sand, she spoke quietly.  "My lord," she whispered, but got no response.  "My lord," she repeated, this time taking his chin in her hand and turning his head slightly toward her.  His eyes were unfocused and his lip was split and leaking blood, letting her guess the method her father had used to awaken him.  She felt her heart swell with pity and she cupped his cheek in her hand for a moment.  "I'm sorry," was all that she could say.  There was no response in his eyes, the vibrant green now dulled; she did not know if he understood or even heard her.

"'Shuah!"  Dhan's voice was only a few feet away.  She saw the captive flinch and cringe away from her at the sound of her father's voice.  Hastily withdrawing her hand, she rose and turned to face him, half sick with dread, but this morning the other half was something new, irritation, resentment.  Her father's face was tight with anger, his black eyes snapping.  "I told you, he is not your concern."  

"I just wanted to make sure he was all right," she said, feeling her own anger rising.  "Why did you hit him?  Look at him," she gestured behind her to the Gondorian, his head once again bowed and his face obscured by blond hair.  "He is not dangerous, not now."

Dhan frowned at her, wondering where his quiet, compliant daughter had gone, and who this woman was before him.  "I decide whether or not he is dangerous," he said to her in a warning tone.  

She caught herself and said nothing more, realizing her own behavior could give her father an excuse to further harm the man behind her in the sand.  She could see the shock on her father's face; she rarely opposed his will and had never spoken angrily to him before.  Struggling to master her temper, she took a deep breath.  "Yes, my Father," she said quietly, before walking past him to gather her things from the tent.  She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.

In less than an hour the camp was packed and ready to leave, each of the packhorses heavily laden while the thirty Haradrim soldiers were mounted and anxious to be on their way.  Shushuah took the reins of her own grey desert pony from the boy who cared for him.  She patted his nose and waited for her father to finish speaking with his subordinate officer, each of them on a lean black pony, the more common color for the little desert mounts.  

From the corner of her eye she kept watch on the prisoner, still on his knees in the sandy soil.  Neither he nor the guard behind him had stirred while the camp and its inhabitants prepared to move out, and Shushuah wondered what her father planned to do with him.  Seeing him trotting his pony toward the captive with two other mounts in tow, she suddenly understood and found herself following.  

Reaching the prisoner, Dhan quickly dismounted.  He gave a sharp command and one of the ponies immediately knelt in the sand.  The guard prodded the captive to his feet and roughly helped him into the saddle.

"Father!"  Shushuah could not keep the nervous tremor from her voice.  He turned to her, his arms folded as though to control his temper.  

"'Shuah?"

"Father, please don't make him ride like that, please."  She reached out and tried to take his hand, but Dhan clenched his fist and would not allow her.  "Look at where he is hurt, it will be torture for him."  Indeed she could already see a grimace of pain on the Gondorian's face, made worse when the pony regained its feet and the guard began tying his feet together under its belly.  Shushuah knew from yesterday how tender the wounded hip was; stretching it across the leather saddle and jostling it for miles would be agony.  "Please, my Father."   

Al-jur Dhan looked at his daughter, his face a mixture of anger and frustration.  "'Shuah, this is not your concern, get on your horse."

"But Father-" 

"Get on your horse," his voice was low and held a threat.  He nodded to the guard, who had finished tying the prisoner's feet and was now moving his hands from behind to before him, wrapping the ropes around his raw wrists and the saddle horn.  "Tie him tightly," he said.  The guard nodded in return, casting a quick glance at Shushuah.  Dhan faced his daughter once more.  She stared back at him, her eyes mutinous, but finally she leaped up into her saddle, driving her heels into her horse and galloping forward to ride at the front of the column.  Dhan remounted his own pony, handed the reins of the other to the guard, who had already climbed onto his own mount, then trotted away to join his daughter.

They rode the entire day, stopping only for a meal at midday.  Dhan kept a close eye on his daughter and she was not permitted to ride near the prisoner, despite her pleas and complaints the guard was not even making sure he swallowed the water that was offered occasionally.  By the time they stopped that evening, Shushuah was determined to see to him.  To her surprise, her father, tired of her demands and suspecting she was correct in her assessment of the guard's poor care, agreed to let her see to the captive, ordering the guard to turn his charge over to the dark-eyed girl.   Bowing in compliance, the guard untied the ropes and harshly dragged the rider from the pony, unceremoniously dumping him onto the ground.  He lay there unmoving, and Shushuah felt a thrum of panic in her chest as she hurried to his side.

Gathering his head into her lap, she poured water from her own water skin into her hand and gently bathed his face, murmuring in Haradrim.  Gradually his eyes opened and she continued to speak softly and wipe his sunburned face with the cool liquid. After a moment, she held the water skin to his mouth and trickled a little down his throat, speaking quiet words of encouragement as he swallowed.  She patiently offered him as much water as he would drink and bathed his scorched skin with her hand, all the while unaware that her father stood watching.

"Is this 'Shuah's new pet?"  Jekarr joined his superior and together they watched the woman nursing the wounded man.  

Al-jur Dhan made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.  "She's fascinated by him."  He shook his head in bewilderment.  "I'm beginning to be sorry I ever let her see him."  

"Well, no harm in letting her take care of him now," said Jekarr.  "If anything it increases your chances of getting him back to Dalania alive."  The general nodded slowly in agreement, although there was a wary expression in his eyes as he watched his daughter. 

The evening meal was similar to the night before, save that this night no tents were set up since they were moving out again early the next day.  Father and daughter ate around a small camp fire while the main Haradrim force gathered at several similar fires nearby.  Boromir had been pushed down roughly into the sand a few feet away from Shushuah.  He shifted slightly, the tentative movement of one who expects new hurt with any motion, and sat quietly, his head lowered.  The constant grinding in the saddle all day had aggravated the hip wound to the point that pain throbbed throughout him, demanding his attention.  Shushuah sat close by eating her meal, her eyes constantly shifting between her father and the wounded soldier of Gondor.  

"My Father –" Shushuah began, recoiling at the fierce look he gave her but pressing on doggedly.  "He needs something to eat."

The General looked past her towards his captive, chewing thoughtfully.  After a lengthy pause he nodded.  "You may give him some food."  She instantly got to her feet and filled a small bowl with some of the meat and vegetables that had been prepared for their meal.  Taking her own cup with her, she approached the Gondorian, who looked up anxiously, his face tired and drained.  With a reassuring smile, she sat down before him, placing the bowl before her in the sand, and offered him a drink from her cup.  She did not see her father's look of astonishment and abhorrence as she tipped the edge for Boromir to swallow.  He found not water but pale wine, and stopped in surprise for a moment before drinking.  

"Go on, it will help you feel better," Shushuah said in her own language, remembering her father was watching her.  The prisoner could not understand her words, but her smile was heartening and he drank deeply, feeling the warmth in his veins almost immediately.  

Fishing out a small chunk of meat from the bowl, Shushuah lifted it to his mouth and carefully fed him, watching with satisfaction as he chewed and swallowed.  Several more pieces of meat and a few vegetables were handed over in this manner.  

Al-jur Dhan watched with growing apprehension.  His daughter's face was glowing with happiness as she tended to the enemy soldier.  This was more than a "pet" as Jekarr had said.  She smiled at the foreigner and offered him another bit of food and Dhan noted the way those green eyes looked at her, with trust and hope.  But worse yet was what he could see in Shushuah's eyes when they met those of the captive, something the general could not allow: affection. 

Dhan abruptly stood up and strode towards them, kicking the bowl and sending it skittering away into the dark.  Shushuah jumped to her feet while Boromir froze, waiting for a crushing blow, trying not to cower away.  

"What?  What is wrong?"  Shushuah cried out, only to be silenced by the general's angry glare.

Without a word he twisted one hand into Boromir's hair, wrapped the other around his arm and dragged him away from the fire, dumping him into the sand, where he lay unmoving, little moans escaping him.  Turning to the guard he ordered the Gondorian be taken and tied to one of the stakes used to picket the horses at the edge of the camp.  

As the guard nodded and reached for the man, Dhan suddenly waved him back and grabbed Boromir's chin in his own dusky hand, forcing the blond head up and searching the green eyes that met his for only a second before they darkened with fear and slid away.  "That's right," said Dhan in a deadly voice, "you should be afraid of me.  You are beginning to understand, aren't you?"  He gave him a vicious shake, sending the pain in Boromir's head shooting down his neck and spine.  "You keep your eyes away from her."  

"Father, please-" Shushuah tried to seize his arm but he pushed her away.

"'Shuah, do not interfere."  There were tears in her eyes, tears of compassion for the foreigner, and that further enraged him.

Without warning he drew back his arm and smashed a heavy fist into Boromir's face, sending him crashing into the gritty dirt.  He heard his daughter cry out behind him.  With a look of loathing he motioned for the guard to take the captive away.  Stepping back he turned to the fire and saw Shushuah had disappeared; she had retreated to her bedroll and was facing away from him.  He could hear her crying, the sound muted by the blankets she had pressed to her face.  He frowned, his eyes wandering back to the prisoner being dragged across the sand.  

They traveled the following day much the same as before, moving across the desert, stopping only for a quick meal in the hottest part of the day.  The guard who had been relieved of his duties the previous day was now returned and given back charge of the prisoner, although Shushuah continued to worry about his care, pressing her father for better treatment, more water, a change of his position on the horse, until he roared in anger and banned her from his sight for the remainder of the day.   All her requests were ignored and she was forbidden to even ride close to the captive, being ordered to stay close to Jekarr at the front of the column.

Boromir stubbornly clung to his senses as long as he could, but the jolting of the horse continued the assault on the already tattered nerves in his hip and across his ribs.  By afternoon he had passed out and when they stopped in the evening he was once more taken from the horse insensible.  This time Shushuah was not permitted to revive him; the guard merely dragged him off to be tied up at the edge of the camp. 

After another plain meal, it was only a short time before the camp was quiet with everyone settled in their blankets.  Shushuah lay under her covers, waiting, and looked up at the stars blazing in the cold nighttime sky.  Nearby, her father had rolled himself in his blankets after sharing a silent meal with her.  Now, after a long time, she could finally hear the sound of his regular, heavy breathing and knew he was asleep.  Easing herself from her bedroll, she glanced around to make sure everyone was sleeping.  Only the solitary guard was awake and he was walking a perimeter at least thirty yards from camp.  She waited until he had passed before wrapping a blanket around her and stealing across the sandy ground to check on the Gondorian.

He was tied to a stake driven deeply into the ground, which seemed ridiculous to Shushuah since he was barely able to stand on his own.  Asleep, his blond head was tilted back against a rock behind him, his cheek lying across the rough surface.  His shoulders were red with sunburn and his lips cracked and split.  Squatting beside him, she gently reached out and stroked his hair, that strange light hair that only a few days ago she had thought odd but now found appealing.  "My lord," she whispered, using the Westron tongue.  He was shivering slightly in the chill night air and she pulled the blanket from her shoulders and tucked it around him.  "My lord."

Boromir stirred slightly and dragged open his heavy eyelids.  The effort this took was overwhelming and he felt slightly nauseous as he did so.  He looked at the girl before him dully.  "How are you?" she asked, gently cupping his cheek as she had done that first morning.  His eyes closed and he seemed to fade away from her.  "My lord?"

He opened his eyes again and this time there was a slight glimmer of recognition in the green depths.  Boromir couldn't remember who she was, or why he recognized her, only that he did.  He gave her a weak smile.  "-'M'all right," he whispered.   He knew this was a lie, knew that she would know it to be one, too.  But the ability to describe the excruciating agony he had been subjected to all day was far beyond his tired brain.  Even now he could not resist the pain, could only try to lie very still and allow it to carry him where it would.  

Shushuah reached down to check his injuries, probing the knife wound, then moving to the angry flesh of his hip, only to have him give a guttural cry as her hand touched him.  Horrified, she covered her mouth to stifle a sob.  This was wrong, she knew it.  No one should suffer like this.  All her life she had listened to her father's stories of honor in war and battle, but there was nothing brave or glorious in this.  She brushed back his hair again and his eyes fluttered shut once more.  The next time she spoke there was no answer, and after a few moments, she went back to her bed, determined to find a way to help him.

In the morning, her worst fears were realized.  She had risen early, determined to see that the captive have some water before they set out, and before her father could catch her near him.  Taking a water skin, she walked across the sand on silent feet and knelt beside his sleeping form.  He looked so defenseless in the pale morning light, his face white and haggard, the bruises on his body visible beneath the blood and grime.  She caressed his fair hair with a gentle hand.  

"My lord." She kept her voice low.  Seeing his eyelids move she called again, more urgently, for fear her father or the guard would hear.  "My lord."

Boromir heard her from a great distance, it seemed, and he reluctantly forced his eyes open.  He struggled to sit up, fighting against a light, fluttery feeling in his chest, and when he was finally upright he was suddenly shaken by a violent chill.  Shushuah felt cold terror.  Lifting the water skin to his dry lips she slipped her other hand up to feel his cheeks, his forehead, the back of his neck.  Everywhere she felt the unmistakable warmth of fever.  Different from his sunburn, this heat seemed to pulsate against her hand, insistent and threatening.  Immediately she looked at his injuries and although she had hoped otherwise, she was not surprised to find the hip wound was even more inflamed than it had been and was now oozing a thick, greenish-yellow discharge.  He drank only a little before he sank back down to the ground, closing his eyes and shivering slightly.

She went to her father in frantic haste, begging him to do something; anything but he only looked at her in amazement.  "What were you doing there with him?"

"Giving him water, Father, please listen-"

"You were disobeying me."  His face grew cold as he stared at her.

Normally Shushuah would have been cowed, but today all her fears were for the captive, not herself.

"Please, my Father, do something for him."

"What would you have me do, 'Shuah?"  Dhan's mouth was pressed into a hard line.

"I don't know," she said fitfully, her eyes bright and her voice shaky.  "We could let him rest today."

"'Shuah," her father's voice was harsh.  "There is nothing I, or you, can do.  His best hope now lies with reaching the healers in Dalania as soon as possible."  He paused and fixed her with a threatening glare.  "And your best hope is to stay away from him."

His daughter only shook her head.  "Then please, my Father, do one thing, for me.  Do not put him on the horse today, I beg you."  She spoke quietly, but her voice was ragged with pain.  "He cannot stand it."

Al-jur Dhan shook his head and gestured toward the guard.  "He must." With that he swung up onto his horse and ordered everyone else to do the same.  

Shushuah bit back her tears as she watched the guard wrestle the practically unconscious Gondorian into the saddle and rope him down, as he had the other days.  Today, however, Boromir lacked the willpower to stifle his cries of distress and the first few hours they rode she could hear his tortured moans.  It tore at her heart and she was ashamed of her relief when he eventually passed out and lay across the horse's neck unaware.  

At the midday stop his guard was barely able to rouse him for a drink, and Shushuah felt her fear for his life grow worse as she mentally counted the days to Dalania.  They had only traveled three days, which left no less than five before they would reach the city.  She shuddered.  Could he last that long?  She doubted it.  

When they stopped in the late afternoon the guard carelessly untied the ropes and stepped away for a moment.  The captive slid lifelessly from the saddle, his dead weight landing hard on the rocky ground.  Shushuah was walking toward his horse when she saw him begin to fall.  She rushed forward but still could not reach him in time.  When she got to his side he lay motionless, a deep gash pumping blood from his scalp.  Weeping openly, she held his head close to her, feeling the warmth of his fever, and pressed the hem of her robe against the gory cut.   When she realized her father was standing above her, she looked up at him, eyes blazing with fury.  

"Is this an honorable way to treat anyone?" she demanded of him.  "Even an enemy?"  She looked down at the blond hair, now stained with fresh blood; the scratched, sunburned face, the pale eyelids that covered those striking eyes.  "You are killing him!" she screamed, her own dark face livid.  "He is going to die!"

Al-jur Dhan looked down at her, his face empty of anger, only pity on his features now.  "Yes, Shushuah, he is."

His words brought her up short and her mouth hung open for a moment.  

"He is either going to die here, or when we get home." Her father stated the fact simply.  "I had hoped to get him back to Dalania to present to the King, but only for use as a sacrifice in the Serpent Ritual.  If he dies on the way it is only a minor inconvenience."  He took in her look of shock.  "Surely you did not think I would allow him to live.  The son of one of Harad's greatest enemies?"  

Shushuah could not catch her breath; it was as if someone were squeezing her lungs, leaving no room for air.   She leaned over and pressed her cheek against the top of Boromir's head, crying bitterly.  Her father groaned with exasperation and reached down, taking her arm and pulling her to her feet, forcing her to loose her hold on the prisoner.  "Come, you are acting foolishly."

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" she screamed, jerking away from him.  "How can you –" she stared at him, incoherent with anger and betrayal.  "I hate you!" she spat out the words.  Turning away from him she ran toward her horse and vaulted into the saddle, whipping him frantically as she raced out into the desert, her tears nearly blinding her.

Dhan watched her go with amazement.  Who was this girl? 

"Should I go after her?" The guard had witnessed the entire exchange and stood poised to follow.

"No." Dhan looked behind him.  Jekarr had also been watching and now he dismissed the guard with a wave and stood beside the general as they both watched Shushuah disappearing into the distance.  Jekarr continued speaking, "Let her go, my master.  Let her be alone for a while.  She'll be back."

"She is being so ridiculous," Dhan burst out, his aggravation evident. 

Jekarr nodded slightly in agreement.  "She is young, sir, she does not understand."  He nodded toward the prisoner.  "You said yourself she was infatuated with him; that is all this is.  She will come to her senses, eventually."

Dhan shook his head and looked down at the man lying at his feet in the sand, his blood mixing with the gritty soil.  Whatever hold this foreigner had on her was dangerous and unattractive.  He needed to get her away from him one way or another.  He gave the unconscious man a shove with his boot, rolling him over on his back.  By the looks of him, the problem would solve itself in a day or so.  For the best, no doubt.  

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Hide and Seek in the Sand

Hide and Seek in the Sand 

Faramir took a deep drink from his water flask, poured some water into his hand and splashed it across the back of his neck.  Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he looked around him, scanning the horizon.  Far to the northeast, mountains reared up from the sandy desert that the Rangers now found themselves crossing, while in every other direction the ground stretched out seemingly flat, dotted with small bushes and clumps of grass.  Faramir knew the flatness was an illusion, however, after three days of travel through the land of Harad.  The stony ground that appeared to be an empty plain instead hid numerous shallow dry washes and depressions, like the one that held the Rangers gathered behind him.  They were quiet, waiting as their officers scrutinized the path ahead of them from the lip of their small shelter.

"I went out about a mile," said Anduron, pointing toward the mountains.  "They have been through here, probably even earlier today."  He looked at Faramir, his eyes white in his grimy face.  "They are moving faster."  

Faramir looked grim.  "Because they suspect they are being followed?" 

"No, my lord, I don't think so."  Anduron shrugged.  "Maybe they are just in a hurry to get home." 

Faramir thought for a moment, then turned and called one of the Rangers forward.  "Isilan."  A man of about thirty with straight dark hair quickly answered his call.  "My lord?"

"You have been into this part of Harad before, yes?"  Faramir fixed his blue eyes on him, his intense gaze making the older man uneasy.  

"Yes, my lord.  About eight years ago."

"Well, tell us about it," Anduron urged him.  "What do you remember?"

Isilan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  "The closer to the mountains you go, the better the ground is, the further south you go, the sandier it gets.  There are little streams coming out of the mountains every once in a while.  The Haradrim have a sort of road, further up, we should reach it tomorrow.  Not a real road, with paving or anything, more like a track of hardened dirt.  It is not well-traveled, but there are the occasional merchants on it, sometimes they move soldiers across it."  He fell silent, then shrugged apologetically.  "That's all I remember."  

Faramir turned to his captain.  "Do you think they are making for the road?"

"It would make sense, they could travel more swiftly, if that is the direction they wish to take."  Anduron looked at Isilan.  "Which direction does the road run?"

Isilan pointed south.  "South, sir.  It doesn't go much further north, here." 

"They have not moved south since they crossed the river," said Faramir.  "They are going east.  Perhaps they will not take the road, but keep to their current path, toward the mountains."  He pushed the hair from his eyes, reddened from the bright desert sun and the small amount of sleep he had been getting each night.  "If we can keep on through the night, using the moonlight, perhaps we can overtake them before they reach the road."  

Anduron gave his lieutenant an appraising glance.  He knew he was not sleeping and instead had spent most of the last three nights walking alone along the edge of wherever they set up their camp.  "My lord," he said, gently motioning Isilan away in dismissal.  "The men need to rest a bit."  He avoided pointing out that Faramir looked exhausted, too.  "It is the heat of the day, let us take an hour or so, get some rest, and resume later this afternoon."  

Faramir glared at him.  "That is another hour they pull ahead of us, Anduron.  We are getting close.  We must keep moving."  He saw the disagreement in his Captain's eyes and it angered him.  "I cannot let them get any further than they already are, don't you see?  You said you would support me."  He stopped himself, afraid he was sounding childish.

"I did, and I do, my lord," Anduron's voice was quiet and he laid a comforting hand on the younger man's arm.  "But the men must have the strength to fight when we find them, and right now, they do not."  He cast a glance behind him, drawing Faramir's gaze with it.  

They had cross the Poros River with twelve men, seven veterans who had spent some time fighting in Harad, Faramir, Anduron and three others who were determined to come along.  The others had been left at the camp in Ithilien, save for the best rider, who had taken Boromir's war horse and galloped to Minas Tirith for reinforcements.  Those who had come across the river were now huddled in the sliver of shade offered by the overhang of a large rock jutting from the sandy ground.  They had been following the faint tracks left by the Haradrim, which were growing fresher as each day passed.  Even the least experienced trackers among them were having little difficulty today finding signs someone had recently passed through the sandy ground.

Now Faramir looked at the men and saw their drawn faces, the lines around their eyes where the sweat had run through the dirt.  He wondered if his face looked the same.  They sat in the shade with the silence of men pushed to the limit.  Faramir stood for a moment, feeling the sun pound down on him, feeling the sweat running through his hair and down the back of his neck again, feeling the uncertainty of his young years and lack of experience, lack of sleep.  At last he nodded.  "Very well, Captain, I see your point.  We will rest and move out at sundown."

Anduron patted him on the back.  "Yes, sir."  He turned and climbed back down into the depression, leaving Faramir alone on the edge for a moment.  Faramir stared into the empty expanse before him, his eyes aching with strain.  "Where are you, brother?" he said softly.  "Where are you, Boromir?"

******************************************************************************************************************

"Where are you?"  Faramir's thin child's voice called down the darkened hallway.  "Boromir?"  He shivered slightly, suddenly not liking the game that he had begged his older brother to play.  At seven, hide and seek was still fun for him, a vastly entertaining way to spend a rainy afternoon, the thrill of finding the perfect hideout matched only by the delicious false terror when it was discovered by his brother, usually with much shouting and murderous threats.

But today, he had had to whine and beg before Boromir would agree to even a very shortened version.  It seemed twelve was an age far too old for enjoying the game, and Faramir had been informed that his brother would only play for a little while and then he had other, more pressing things to do.  Faramir was still unclear on what those things were, but had been assured that they were of vital importance.  Still, any time that his beloved brother would give him was to be enjoyed.  

Standing in the dim hall, however, while the rain poured down in sheets against the windows, his enthusiasm was rapidly waning.  He had hidden twice, only to be found in short order by Boromir, who had then announced it was his turn to hide.  Extracting Faramir's promise not to look, and to count slowly to the highest number he could think of, Boromir had crept away.  Faramir had counted past 150, lost his place somewhere in the 160's and decided he had counted far enough.  Turning from where he had pressed his face against the back of a large chair, he left the room where Boromir had found him hiding earlier.

They were in a wing of the Citadel that was used by visitors only when every other available room was taken, so it often sat empty for years at a time.  Faramir did not know if he ever remembered seeing lights in these rooms or the dust coverings removed from the elaborately carved furniture.  To him it had always been the dark, quiet, slightly sinister part of his home.  It had, of course, been Boromir's choice to play the game here.  

"It will make it more fun," he had coaxed Faramir.  "We can find all kinds of hiding places, plus it will be dark."  

"I don't like the dark," the younger brother had said petulantly, his lower lip sticking out.  "It's too scary."  

"I don't mean dark dark," said Boromir with exasperation, "it's afternoon, it won't be that bad.  Of course, I really don't want to play anyway…"

With the threat of no game at all, Faramir had quickly agreed to use the empty wing.  Now he stood uncertainly in the center of the long hall, feeling the faint tremble of fear starting up his back.   "Boromir?" he called again, his voice quavering in the shadows.  "Where are you?"  Hesitantly he took a step forward and opened one of the wooden doors that lined the walls.  He peered into the room, eyes squinted against the blackness.  Except for a bed and two tables, the room appeared vacant.  Faramir backed out and closed the door, jumping with nervousness as it thumped shut.  Unconsciously clutching the edge of his tunic he moved down a few steps and stood before the next door.  He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he reached out a small hand for the doorknob.

With the soft click the door opened and Faramir looked around the doorway, trying to gather his courage.  The curtains in this room were pulled shut and it was indeed 'dark dark' just as Faramir had feared earlier.  "Boromir?" His voice was a whispered squeak as he forced his feet across the room.  

In addition to the requisite bed and table, this room also held a large cupboard, barely visible in the gloom.  Faramir stared at it, certain it was the perfect hiding place for his older brother.  Swallowing down his uneasiness, he approached the cupboard and wrapped his hand around the large metal latch.  Working up his courage, he gave a jerk and the door swung open with a ragged creak.  And something leaped out at him.

It was large and furry, brown, heavy.  He squealed in horror and turned to run, but the thing grabbed his legs and pulled him down to the floor.  Panicking, he screamed in stark terror.  "Boromir, Boromir!"  He kicked vigorously to get loose from whatever it was that trapped him, still calling on his brother for rescue.

Down the hall another door was thrust open and Boromir's worried face appeared.  The screams continued coming from behind the second door in the abandoned hallway.  Racing down the dimly lit passage, Boromir reached the door just as Faramir bolted out, still yelling at the top of his lungs.  He grabbed Faramir by the wrist, which ratcheted the screams up higher until he pulled him close in a reassuring hug.  "It's me, it's me."  Faramir collapsed against him, crying.  

Boromir leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor, still holding his little brother tightly in his lap.  "Shh, shhh, it's all right, it's just me."  The smaller boy buried his head in his older brother's chest sobbing.  Boromir said nothing, merely stroked his back gently and waited for him to quiet.  At last his cries petered out into sniffling and hiccupping and there was silence, only the sound of the rain still drumming against the ancient windows opposite them.  "What happened?" the older boy asked, feeling some of the tension drain from the small body in his arms.  

"I th-thought you were in the cupboard," stammered Faramir, looking up at him with enormous blue eyes, his fair hair tangled in front of them.  "I pulled the door, and – a – a monster…jumped on me."  He laid his head back on Boromir's chest, shuddering.  "It jumped on me, and I c-couldn't get away, and I yelled and yelled for you."

"Yes, you certainly did," Boromir smiled and held his brother a little tighter.  "But you did get away, didn't you?"  He felt Faramir's hesitant nod against his chest.  "And nothing has come after you, has it?"  Again the small head moving against him as his brother shook it.  "Well, then let us go see this monster."  He stood Faramir up before him, then got to his own feet.  "Come on," he said, holding out his hand.  

Reluctantly Faramir took it, hanging back at the doorway.  "It's in the cupboard," he whispered.  

Boromir walked across the room, feeling his arm being pulled behind him as Faramir stayed as far back as possible.  Reaching for the curtains, he wrestled his hand from the death grip Faramir had on it and pulled the heavy fabric open a bit, allowing in at least the faint light of the rainy afternoon.  Faramir's hands wormed their way into the folds of his tunic, clutching and sweating.  In the pale light, he could see the cupboard door was hanging open, and lying on the floor was an old, brown cloak made of thick wool, its fur collar tattered, the hemline torn and bedraggled.  Boromir bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"Is this your monster?" He looked down at his little brother, whose own face was a picture of astonishment and embarrassment.  

"I – I guess so – "  Faramir hesitantly walked forward and pushed at the ancient wool with his toe.  "But it jumped, I mean…" he looked back at his brother.  "I opened the door, and it jumped out."

"Hmm," Boromir tried to sound as if he believed this to be possible.  He walked over and opened the cupboard door wider, revealing it to be full of old cloaks, robes and moldy finery from bygone times.  They had been stuffed into every available nook and cranny of the cupboard until it bulged at the seams.  No doubt the brown one had merely been near the front, and Faramir's frightened tug had dislodged it.  "Well," he said, poking the cloak with his own toe, "you have killed it, it seems."  He bent one knee and knelt before his brother.  "Hail Faramir, Captain of Gondor, destroyer of fell beasts!" 

Faramir's brows came together angrily.  "Don't make fun of me."   

Instantly Boromir was on his feet.  "I'm sorry."  He looked around the room, realizing how it would appear in the dark to a seven-year old with a vivid imagination, and remembering it had been his idea to play in this wing.  He picked up the dilapidated cloak and shoved it back into the cupboard, pushing the doors shut.  "Do you want to hide next?"

"I don't want to play anymore," Faramir sighed.  He hunched his shoulders, ashamed of his actions.  He looked up at his brother, misery plain on his face.  "I'm sorry to be such a baby."

"You are not a baby," said Boromir decisively.  He knelt again, this time to put his hands on the slight shoulders in front of him.  "You are a brave and true soldier of Gondor."  

"No," said Faramir.  "No, I am not."  His soft, child's jaw set and his brother saw his blue eyes grow hard behind the shimmer of tears.  "But one day I will be, and I will not be afraid, and I will – " he hesitated, searching for the bravest deed he could think of.  "I will rescue you from danger!"  

Boromir smiled, touched by his declaration.  He pulled him close in another hug, his hand running through the soft red-blond curls.  "I know you will, brother," he said as Faramir's arms crept around his neck to return the hug.  

************************************************************************************************************************

Faramir blinked back tears, remembering his childish bravado.  How easy things had seemed when he was seven years old.  He had been so sure that one day, when he reached the vast age of twelve, like his brother, he would be brave and confident of himself.  But twelve had come, and then sixteen, and now twenty, and he found himself still beset at times by doubts and uncertainties. Like now.

Today was the third day since they had crossed the river.  No sign of the Haradrim raiding party, save for hoof prints in the dirt.  Every day they were further from Ithilien, from Gondor, from the reinforcements that he hoped were even now on their way.  He thought of the men behind him.  He had not asked any of them to follow him, save Anduron, yet they had volunteered, demanded in fact, to accompany him.  Was he leading them to their deaths?  He had no fear for himself, knowing deep in his bones that the price of his life for Boromir's was an exchange he would willingly make.  To gain his brother's safety, to send him home to the White Tower was paramount.  For the Rangers, the life of the Heir was worth their own, but Faramir would feel more at ease knowing his own lack of knowledge about their enemy was not going to cause them to be killed here in the desert.   He pinched his fingers into the corners of his burning eyes, and suddenly realized Anduron had returned to stand beside him.

"My lord, come into the shade, rest a bit," Anduron's voice was low, persuasive.  "You will end up with heat stroke if you stand here all day."

Faramir nodded absently but did not move.  "Should I go back, Anduron?" He met the older man's surprised gaze.  "Should we go back to Minas Tirith and face my father?"

Anduron dropped his eyes.  "I do not know, my lord."  He tried to imagine standing before the Steward, giving his report, accounting for his actions.  He thought of his young lieutenant, ramrod straight in front of his father, explaining his choices to the flinty-eyed man who never seemed to be pleased by anything the younger son did.  It was not a pleasant picture in his head.  But how far could a dozen men move into Harad before they would become the hunted, not the hunters?  He guessed they had covered close to seventy miles in the three days they had been on the trail.  Even now they were too deep into the enemy's land for his comfort.  He looked back at his young lord and thought again how worn-out and weary he looked.  Not just the physical strain showed, but the emotional one, as well.  He put his hand on Faramir's upper arm and turned him toward the shady spot.  "Come, my lord, and get out of the sun."  

Faramir allowed himself to be steered into the shade with the rest of the Rangers, all of whom scooted over a bit to allot him a tiny spot out of the sun's rays.  Sitting down and leaning his back against the warm sand, Faramir closed his eyes.  He heard Anduron quietly send out a scout and urge the others to get some sleep.  He relaxed a little, forcing the thought of returning home to the back of his mind, and reminding himself that they were getting closer to their quarry.  Tomorrow, perhaps, they would have them.  He fell asleep trying to devise a plan of attack against an enemy he had yet to see.

************************************************************************************************************************

A gentle shake woke Faramir and he opened his eyes to see Anduron's face only inches from his own.  It was still daylight, but Faramir could tell several hours had passed while he slept.  

"My lord," Anduron's voice was hushed and excited.  "Ethanar is back, he says a rider is approaching."

Instantly Faramir was completely awake.  Getting to his feet he shook the sand from his clothes and stepped out from under the rock to speak to the returned scout, who was drawing a crude map in the sandy soil.  

"Here is where we are," he said, placing a small stone in a circle.  "He is coming from the east."  Another stone was placed.  "Now, if we go around to the south, there are several bunches of grass here, and a low place."  He added sticks to the map.  "I think we can take him here."

"He's alone?"  Anduron asked him.  The scout nodded.  "You're sure?"  Again Ethanar answered affirmatively.  

"I watched him for a good while, you can see a long way here," Ethanar said.  "No one else is with him."

"Should we take him?"  Faramir looked at Anduron uncertainly.  "Maybe we should just let him go by."  

"Once he gets past he'll see signs we have been there," Anduron reminded him.  "Better to stop him now."  Faramir nodded, content to go along with the veteran soldier's judgment.  Quickly Anduron chose several men to go with Ethanar and set up the ambush.  They slipped away through the sandy scrub, staying low.  All the Rangers had purposely smeared their green cloaks with mud the first day they has crossed the river, and they quickly blended into the surroundings. 

Anduron and Faramir crawled to the edge of the depression and strained their eyes to see if they could pick out the approaching horseman.  Only a thread of dust in the east gave any indication someone was traveling across the plains.  Turning their eyes south they could to see nothing to indicate anyone was moving through the scrubby bushes and grass.  They watched closely, but the distance and the dust made any hope of witnessing the actual attack doubtful.  They settled down to wait.

As they waited, Anduron passed the word to pull up the hoods of their cloaks.  At Faramir's questioning look he gave a small grin.  "It will help hide our faces and make us look more frightening.  There are only a dozen of us, we need all the help we can get."  Faramir nodded and returned a slight smile.

In a short while the attack party returned with its prizes, a fleet desert pony and a small, extremely frightened Haradrim.  Ethanar pushed his captive toward Anduron.  "Captain, it's a woman."

Anduron's face showed his shock before he quickly mastered himself.  He had certainly not expected this.  He pulled his hood back a little and stared at her.   She kept her head down, and he thought he saw her lower lip trembling.  She was tiny, barely coming up to his shoulder, and dressed in robes of deep blue, with a headscarf covering her dark hair.  When she did risk a look at her captors he could see her black eyes were wide with fright.  Her hands anxiously twisted and knotted each other as she stood before him.  Faramir came forward and stood beside his Captain, while the other Rangers stayed further back, silent, watching.

"What shall we do with her?" asked Ethanar.  "She's no soldier."

"No," said Anduron, "But she is not here alone on the plains, either.  There are others nearby, no doubt.  We cannot have her telling them we are here, especially if they are the ones we are following."

Without warning she threw herself at Anduron's feet, causing him to step back in surprise.  "Please, please, my lord, do not hurt me," she said, clutching at his boots.  

Anduron gaped at her in astonishment before he regained his composure and bent to pull her to her feet.

"Lady, do you understand me?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, yes," she nodded vigorously.  "I speak the Westron tongue."

"What are you doing riding across these plains alone?" Faramir asked the question, but she looked at Anduron and he saw her hesitate before she answered.  

"Just riding.  I live near here."

"You are lying, lady," Anduron said, using the most sinister voice he could call forth, hoping he could frighten her into cooperating with him.  She bit her lip but remained silent.  He went on with his act, "Why shouldn't we kill you?"  

He could see the tears welling in her eyes.  She was not very old, and her terror was quite evident.  Her hands worried the metal bracelets she wore, clicking softly.

"I can bargain," she said softly, her voice trembling.

"You have nothing of value to us," Faramir made his voice harsh.  Anduron was pleased to see he understood the charade and was playing his part.

"I have jewelry, my rings," she said desperately, starting to pull them off.  

"We have no need for baubles," said Anduron with a sneer.

"My h-," she faltered, but swallowed and went on.  "My horse."

"If we wanted horses, we would have them." Faramir's voice was dismissive.

Her shoulders slumped in resignation and defeat.  Taking a breath, she raised her head and faced Anduron.  "I have myself."  

He pursed his lips as though he were considering her offer.  She hurried on, her voice shaky.  He saw how frightened she was and felt slightly guilty about his behavior.  Still, he needed any information she might be able to give him about what lay in front of them.

"You may do with me as you wish, if you will let me go, afterward."

He laughed as cruelly as he could.  "I can do with you as I wish no matter what, lady."

She did start to cry, then, quiet, hopeless sobs and Anduron knew Faramir's natural gentleness would not allow him to go on with the pretense.  Throwing back his hood, Faramir stepped forward and took her arm kindly.  "Do not cry, lady," he said reassuringly, "we are not that kind of men."

Shushuah looked up at him and gasped, her black eyes widening as she took in his bright blue ones and his fair red-gold hair.  Without hesitation she knew and she returned Faramir's grasp with her own tight grip.  "You are the younger brother – you are searching for the man with green eyes!"

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. For the Love of a Brother, Part II

**Many Thanks:  **To Princess Faz for scores of e-mails and midnight phone calls to discuss plot, and to Benji, for NUMEROUS beta reads.  

**For the Love of a Brother, Part II**

Faramir's grip on Shushuah's arm tightened and his eyes blazed with total concentration at her words. "What did you say?" His voice was deadly.  "What do you know of my brother?"  His grasp on her arm began to hurt and when she gave a small whimper of pain he quickly released her, a slight look of apology flitting across his features before his blue eyes hardened once again and he stared at her intently.

"Is it not true?"  She looked up at him, her dark eyes searching his face.  "You are looking for your brother, the one with hair like yours, and green eyes?"  She knew it was true, it had to be, it could only be him.

"Why do you say that, lady?" Anduron's voice was also tense and threatening.  

"He told me you would come," Shushuah spoke breathlessly, her words for Faramir alone.  The fear that had overwhelmed her in the last few moments transformed into amazement and she gave a happy little laugh of relief.  "He said his brother would come."  Just as quickly the laugh faded and she took Faramir's hands, her expression serious.  "You must go quickly, my lord, he is badly hurt and very ill."  Her voice was beseeching.

Faramir looked at her, his mind reeling.  Everything about her sudden appearance had made him wary and on guard and more than willing to believe she was a spy or decoy of some sort.  Yet he could not simply dismiss any news she might have of Boromir. 

"Hurt?"  His hands gripped hers tightly and Shushuah could see the fear that suddenly darkened his eyes. 

 Her voice dropped and her face became serious.  "I fear for his life."  

He turned to his captain, a part of him wanting to insist they leave immediately, follow this girl into the distance and find his brother.  The other part of him knew, however, that she could also be lying, the exact decoy he had believed her to be when she first started speaking.  Anduron read all of this on his face in a matter of seconds.  He motioned for the girl to sit and she did so, self-consciously withdrawing her hands from Faramir's and lowering herself to the sand.  Faramir paced in a circle as Anduron began to question her.

"Who are you?"  His voice was hard, letting her know he did not trust her, regardless of Faramir's feelings.  

"My name is Shushuah," she said softly.

"What are you doing out here, in the desert?"  Anduron's gaze bored into her.  "Do not lie to me."  

She hesitated, "I am traveling with my father, and others."  Her eyes dropped and she gazed through lowered eyelashes at the young man walking agitatedly behind her questioner.  He ran a nervous hand through his reddish hair as she watched and she saw his eyes watching her.

"Your father," Anduron considered this answer.  "Who is your father?"

Shushuah thought for moment, wondering how to avoid giving her father's name, which she felt sure this soldier of Gondor would recognize.  "He is just a soldier, my lord."  She looked past the older man and rested her gaze once again on Faramir, who had halted his pacing and was now standing behind his captain and watching her keenly.

"Just a soldier?"  Anduron snorted.  "Soldiers do not travel with their families, in Gondor or in Harad.  He must be someone of importance."

The girl looked down at her feet and said nothing.  "Please, my lord," she said in a low voice, "I am just a daughter, traveling with my father."  She raised her eyes to Faramir and smiled hesitantly.  "You look like your brother," she said quietly.

Anduron quickly measured up the situation and motioned his lieutenant to follow him out of earshot.  A few steps further out in the sand he turned away from the girl and faced Faramir.  "You will get more out of her than I will.  She will no doubt tell you all you want to know," he said.  He shook his head in amusement at Faramir's look of surprise.  He glanced over his shoulder before looking back at his young lord.   "She likes you, can't you see it?"

Faramir flushed.  "I hardly think she knows if she 'likes' anyone after five minutes –"

Anduron interrupted him.  "Well, whatever you want to call it, you are the one she wants to talk to, Faramir, I can see it on her face.  She knows who you are, too."  He looked at their captive again.  "Now whether that is because she really has talked to Boromir, or is indeed a decoy of some sort, I don't know, and I don't think she will tell - me."   He motioned toward her with his head.  "Go on, see what she will tell YOU."

Faramir returned to Shushuah, seating himself directly opposite her on the ground and looked deeply into her eyes for a moment.  She saw again how much like his brother he appeared, save his eyes were azure rather than green, and the worry and fear in that penetrating gaze told her he needed to know anything she could tell him.  Reaching out and taking her hands again, Faramir gave her a gentle smile and said simply, "Tell me about my brother."

"Oh, my lord."  She leaned forward and the story spilled out, from the moment she had first seen Boromir in her father's tent four days ago up to the sick and injured wreck of a man she had left behind when she galloped off only an hour past.  Faramir closed his eyes and dropped his head at times as she spoke, barely able to stand the words, but each time when she faltered, he would encourage her with a quiet, "Go on."  

Anduron watched from a few feet away, trying to gauge whether she was telling the truth, trying not to let himself be swayed by her appearance or actions, but only listen to the story she told.  She spoke with quiet sincerity, sometimes stumbling over the words as she tried to tell all that she knew of the Gondorian captive in her father's possession.  Anduron could see Faramir was struggling to keep his composure as she talked, and knew he, at least, believed her tale.  

When at last she finished, there were tears in her own eyes.  "I am afraid, my lord, afraid he is going to die, and my father does not care."  She thought back to the words that had sent her fleeing the camp and her black eyes suddenly flashed with anger.  "He said he would die here or in Dalania, it did not matter which."  She stopped suddenly, staring at the ground before her, seemingly lost in thought.  "My father does not care, he will let him die.  He loves no one and cares for no one."  She took a breath and composed herself, then pressed her cheek to Faramir's hands, still held tightly in her own.  "You must go, my lord, you must go and save him."

Faramir gently pulled his hands free and stood up, thoughtfully staring down at her.  He tried to force the details of her story to the back of his mind, but was unable, the picture of Boromir lying bleeding in the sand surrounded by enemies refused to leave him.  He had suspected as much, of course, but her confirmation of his fears only made him more certain his other, more dire suspicions would come to pass. 

He turned away for a moment, forcing himself to think logically.  She could be lying, she could have been sent by the Haradrim specifically to mislead them, to trick them into attempting a rescue, or at least showing themselves.  Were the Southrons that subtle?  He did not know.  Turning back he concentrated on her face, trying to find some way of discerning whether or not she was telling the truth.  She returned his stare with none of the terror she had displayed earlier, her eyes seeming to be clear and without guile.  He looked at his captain, hoping for some guidance.

Anduron saw the struggle on his face, feeling the same opposition in his own thoughts.  He crossed his arms and looked down at the girl, "Why should we believe you?  How do we know you aren't lying?"  He did not make his voice harsh this time, just asked the questions as he truly felt, uncertain and hoping for something that would convince him of her truthfulness.

She looked up at him for a long moment, and he saw her lower lip tremble.  A tear slipped from her eye and traced down her cheek where she wiped it away with the back of her hand.  "I do not know, my lord.  I cannot make you believe me."  She pulled up the edge of her robe to dry her eyes and suddenly stopped, looking at a dark stain.  

"This is his blood," she said softly.  She lifted it toward Faramir like an offering.  "This is his blood, it is not even dry."  Faramir's eyes locked on the blue material and the rusty smear as the girl's tears continued to course down her cheeks.  "I cannot make you believe me, my lord, all I can tell you is he is hurt and he is suffering and I can do nothing, only you can help him."  She waited a moment but receiving no answer from the soldiers before her, she lowered her robe and wept, holding her hands across her face.   

At length she raised her eyes to Faramir's. "I do not want you to suffer, either, my lord.  My own brothers died last year in a great plague in our city, and I would not want anyone to feel the way I did then."   Faramir swallowed hard and had to look away from her gaze.   She wearily brushed away her tears with her fingers.

Anduron realized suddenly she was only a girl, full of romantic dreams and the uncomplicated thinking of the young.  He could see that her heart had been touched, first by Boromir's injuries and his, to her, strange and exotic appearance, and now by the younger brother who shared his looks and was so desperately seeking him.  

Shushuah's black eyes stayed locked on Faramir and when he finally looked back at her she held her hands out to him in supplication. "Something has guided my way to you, my lord, so perhaps it is fate that you find him."  Her dark eyes softened again with tears.  "Otherwise he will die."

Faramir straightened slightly and faced his captain.  "I believe her," he said in a faint, flat voice.  "I believe her, and I am going to follow her and find him."  

Anduron nodded.  He lowered his voice so Shushuah could not hear him.  "I believe her, too.  She has too many details for it to be a story made up simply to draw us out.  And the little things she knows, the death of your mother long ago, the way Boromir would correct her calling him a prince, these are things that ring true."  His lieutenant nodded and they each stood thinking in the quiet evening air.  Anduron finally spoke, thinking aloud, planning his next move as he continued. "We will have to move tonight, they cannot be too far ahead.  We can try to – "    

"My lords," the girl's voice interrupted their conversation.  She had risen from her seat in the dust and was worriedly staring across the desert.  "It is getting late, I must go back.  If I do not return, my father will send someone to look for me, and my tracks will lead them here."

Both men gave her a look of disbelief.  "You cannot go back; you cannot let them know we are here," said Anduron.

She stared at him, stricken.  "I will not reveal you, my lord, but you must release me.  My father will send someone.  He will not let the night pass without my return."  She pointed to the sun touching the horizon.  

The captain shook his head.  "Lady, we cannot allow it.  If you tell them about us –"

"I will not tell!"  Shushuah said angrily.  "I promise you."  She groaned with frustration, knowing her father would not wait long before sending out a search party.  "I must get back, or they will come.  Please!"   Seeing from the look on Faramir's face that he was unsure, she reached out and took hold of his sleeve.  "I will not betray you, I swear it.  And I will care for your brother."  Her eyes were riveted on the young man before her.

"My lord!"  Anduron spoke vehemently.  "We cannot send her back.  She will tell them where we are, how many we are, everything."  He frowned at the girl and watched Faramir's face anxiously.  

Faramir stood indecisively.  Beside him the girl held onto him, her face pleading.  He looked at her, not knowing exactly what he was hoping to find in that dark countenance, but he found it and motioned Ethanar to hand over her pony's reins.  As Shushuah climbed into the saddle he passed the reins to her, holding them until she met his gaze.  "His name is Boromir," he said quietly.

"Faramir, no!" Anduron spoke quietly but his voice held anger.  

 "Tell him I am coming."  Blue eyes engulfed Shushuah.  "Tell him Faramir is coming."

"I will my lord." 

She whirled the horse around and cantered off into the dusk as the Rangers nearby began preparing themselves for a stealthy march across the dark desert.

Anduron crossed his arms in frustration and walked away a few steps.  Faramir could see him trying to control his temper.  When he turned back he glared at his lieutenant.  

"She will tell.  She will let them know we are here, and they will kill him and then come after us."

"No," Faramir kept his eyes on the tiny horse that was disappearing into the distance.  "She will not speak of it."

"How do you know?"  Anduron asked angrily.

Faramir sighed and turned back to his captain.  "Because of what she said, about her brothers dying last year.  Because she said she did not want me to know that kind of pain."  His gaze met Anduron's, his eyes shadowed with sadness and understanding.  "Because she knows what it is to lose someone that you love."

*********************************************************************

Shushuah met Jekarr and her father's guard little more than halfway back to the camp.  They were, of course, looking for her, and seemed pleased to find her returning on her own.  

"Your father was worried," said Jekarr.  "You should not run away like that in the desert, it is too easy to lose your way."

Shushuah could feel her heart suddenly pound with nervousness and gave what she hoped was a normal laugh.  "I am not one to lose my way."  She trotted her horse past them, praying they would simply turn and follow without asking where she had been.  To her relief, they did.  

"He was also worried about how angry you were."  Jekarr spoke quietly, sliding his eyes toward her.

Shushuah looked down at her hands, trying to give the impression she had seen the error of her ways.  "I know, Jekarr.  I was wrong to shout at him, and ride off.  I will apologize, as soon as we get back."  

"Good," he said.  "He is a fine man, 'Shuah, and an excellent soldier.  You are young, and innocent of the ways of war.  Your father is just doing his duty with this prince of Gondor."

"And my father always does his duty," she said under her breath before stopping herself and forcing a compliant smile onto her face.  She nodded as though in understanding but said nothing.  They rode the rest of the way back to the camp in silence as darkness fell.

When they arrived in camp, Shushuah forced herself to go immediately and seek out her father.  He was sitting before a small fire, drinking wine from an ornate cup.  Seeing her, he rose and she quickly approached him and sank down on her knees, bowing her head.  "Forgive me, my Father, I was wrong."  She called forth Jekarr's words, making them her own.  "I am young, and know nothing of war and strategies.  I know you are doing your duty, I am sorry."  She waited, unsure of his reaction, keeping her eyes downcast.

Al-jur Dhan took her hand and raised her to her feet.  "Look at me, 'Shuah," he commanded.  She followed his order, hoping her eyes would not betray her.  He saw the fear in them, but mistook it for concern that he would not forgive her.  "You are all I have left, my daughter," he said.  "Do not turn from me, do not let this enemy from the north tear us apart."  His tone made his words a threat, not a request.  She ignored that fact and shook her head.

"No, my father, I will not."

"I hope so."  He released her hand.  "He is not worthy of your pity, 'Shuah.  The men of Gondor are a hard race, cruel and heartless, full of lies."  He stared into the fire, brooding.    

Taking a drink from his cup he seemed lost in thought.  He sat down by the fire again, looking at his daughter.  "Are you hungry?"  He gestured to a basket beside him heaped with dried fruit and bread.  When she nodded he filled an empty plate and offered her a seat beside him.  She made herself sit and eat without asking about the prisoner.

"Where did you go?" her father's question caught her off guard.  

"I – uh – just rode around in the desert." She said, wondering if he was trying to discover something more.  

"Did you see anyone?"

She looked at him in surprise.  "No, Father, I did not."  She took a drink from the cup he offered her as he gave her a long look.  

"No one?" he asked.  

"No, my Father, no one."  She felt a nervous trickle of sweat roll down her back.  

"Hmm" He looked thoughtful.  "I thought perhaps one of the scouts we left at the river would have caught up to us by now."  

Shushuah relaxed slightly.  "I saw no one, and I rode west for almost an hour."

Dhan nodded as he stared into the fire.  "We will reach the caves of Falou tomorrow.  Perhaps we should wait a day or so there and see if they reach us."

"A day or two?"  Shushuah could not keep the sudden worry from her voice as she asked the question and she felt a cold chill of dread creep across her when her father's sharp eyes looked at her knowingly.  "I mean – it's –"

He sighed and placed his cup on the ground before him.  "'Shuah, he is going to die, you know that, don't you?"

She said nothing, shocked that her father had understood her concern so quickly, and fearing that he spoke the truth and the prisoner would die before his rescuers could come for him.  If he could just make it another day, she thought to herself, he would be safe once they came.  When his brother came – a sudden chill went up her spine as the realization came to her.  The only way for them to take him would be by force.  

A picture of attacking Gondorian soldiers and defending Haradrim swam before her eyes momentarily.  The men of Gondor were so few; they could not defeat the men of Harad, who were more than twice their number.  They would be cut down, destroyed, and the prisoner would die regardless.  She buried her head in her arms and tried to block out the awful vision.  Why had she not realized that before?

"'Shuah?"  Al-jur Dhan reached over and touched her arm. 

She looked up at him, her face inscrutable.  "Are you sure he is going to die?" she asked, her voice quavering.  

Her father narrowed his eyes, feeling there was more to her question than it appeared.  "Yes, 'Shuah, I am sure."  He saw her face fall.  "I had truly hoped to get him to Dalania, but Jekarr and his metal arrowhead seem to have cheated me of that.  The infection is going to kill him before too many more days.  He will probably die while we are waiting at the caves."

"Then can we just leave him in the desert?"  Her question caught him off guard.

"What?"

"He is suffering so on the horse, my father." She looked at him with sad dark eyes.  "If he is going to die, let us just leave him behind."  Shushuah waited for his response, her mind racing.  If they could leave the captive behind, his brother would find him, she was sure of it.  There would be no slaughter tomorrow.  She stared up at her father beseechingly, but he only looked at her with annoyance and grunted with exasperation.

"I will not just leave him.  Even dead he should be worth something to the King.  We have his equipment to prove his identity…"  He was thinking out loud now and did not notice the trembling of his daughter's hand as she held her cup.  "We can bury the body in the sand and then collect it the next time someone comes through, after it has dried out.  Easier to carry that way."  

"Why don't you just kill him now and be done with it."  Shushuah's voice was shaking with anger and suppressed tears. 

Dhan stopped speaking and gave her a look of surprise.  "Because of you."  Seeing her confusion he shrugged.  "You have grown fond of him, too fond in my opinion, but I would not turn you against me by killing him now."

"Especially not when he is going to conveniently die for you anyway," she said bitterly.

Her father pursed his lips and was silent.  Hot tears fell onto Shushuah's hands where they were wrapped around her cup and she sniffled.  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a several moments until at last Shushuah cleared her throat and stood up.  Leaving her cup in the sand, she went and bent over her father, pressing her cheek to his.  He could feel the wet streaks from her tears.  "May I see to him before I go to bed?" she asked in a hushed voice.  

Her father took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, looking at her closely.  She met his gaze with her head up, even though she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling and her wet eyes reflected the firelight.  

"If I tell you no, you will not obey, you will sneak away as you did this morning, won't you?"  The general watched as Shushuah's eyes hardened and met his.  He sighed.  Al-jur Dhan had gained his fame as a strategist, and he knew when to retreat from a battle.  With a sigh of defeat, he nodded.  "He is over there."  He indicated a small tree on the edge of the camp.  She bowed and walked away, leaving him staring at her cup for a long while.

On her way to the tree, Shushuah picked up a water skin and a blanket, vowing to herself that the Gondorian would at least have the comfort of knowing his brother was coming for him.  She found herself wondering if any of the northern soldiers would survive, would there be more captives in the camp tomorrow night?  And what of the younger brother?  Would he live through a fight with her father's soldiers?  Shushuah had seen the look on his face and knew he would never give up until he had found his brother or was dead himself.  She thought of her own brothers and how much she had loved them, how she would have done anything to save them.  No, only his own death would stop the man with blue eyes.  

She felt the tears spilling from her eyes again and swiped a hand across her face.  She berated herself for her stupidity, her ignorance.  She had only wanted to save the captive, to keep him alive, not send a dozen men to be slaughtered by her father's soldiers.  Now they were coming, and she could do nothing.  Nothing except wait and try to comfort the man they were coming for with words of false hope.

Nearing the tree, she saw he had been once again tied to the stake driven into the ground, his arms bound behind him; although tonight he lay stretched out on his side, his face in the dust.

Kneeling beside him, she tenderly stroked his cheek, feeling the warmth of his fever.  Leaning over as close to his ear as possible, she whispered his name, "Boromir."  His face twitched slightly and she whispered again, "Boromir."  After a long while, his eyelids slid open and she could see the glint of his eyes in the moonlight.  He tried to raise his head but could not so she lifted it for him, half rolling him onto his back so she could raise his shoulders and let him lean against her.  Each movement brought a weak cry of pain from him.  At last she had his back pressed across her knees, his head resting in her arm like a newborn.  

Holding the water skin to his mouth she urged him to drink, but he closed his eyes and turned his head away, the simple act of swallowing beyond him.  "Come, my lord, you must," she said, brushing her fingers lightly across his lips and carefully dribbling the water upon his tongue so he would not choke.  His muscles moved unconsciously and she smiled with pleasure as the small amount of water went down his throat.  "Good boy," she said, forgetting for a moment where she was and who was in her arms, remembering instead the countless hours she had spent at her brothers' bedsides, and her mother's, desperately trying to get them to drink something.  She poured a few more drops onto his tongue.

She eventually got him to take small sips from the water skin and as he swallowed she repeatedly breathed his name and her words of hope into his ear, even as she thought to herself they were in vain.  "Boromir, your brother is coming for you, Faramir is coming."  Once as she spoke he stopped drinking and his eyes opened slightly and met hers as if he understood, but she could not be sure.  Still, she kept speaking, as if she could somehow will him to comprehend.

When at last she could not get him to drink any more she lowered him carefully back to the dusty ground, wincing each time he made a sound of distress.  She could not even bring herself to look at his injuries, knowing they would only be worse than that morning and she could do nothing for him.  She contented herself with covering him with the blanket and carefully combing his hair with her fingers, avoiding the strands matted with blood.  

"Your brother is coming, Boromir," she crooned softly, "he is coming."  His eyes were closed again, but she repeated the words, hoping he would understand.  She thought he did because it seemed like the faintest of smiles crossed his lips.  She bent down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, never seeing her father as he watched from a short distance away.  Al-jur Dhan's face hardened and he walked back toward his campfire.    

Shushuah tucked the blanket around Boromir and went to her bed, rolling herself snugly in between the heavy blankets. She lay for a long time dreading the coming of morning, wondering how she could have changed things, done something different so that neither of the brothers would have to die.  She found no answer and felt the tears rise up again.  Pressing her hands against her face, she cried, quiet, smothered sobs, until at last she fell asleep, still weeping.

*********************************************************************

In the morning, Shushuah awoke with a nervous flutter in her stomach.  Something would happen today she was sure.  She had seen the look in the younger brother's eyes and he would not wait very long before he made a move.  

She considered telling her father about the soldiers following them but held back.  He would be angry that she had not told him earlier, she knew that much, and she feared he might kill the captive immediately.  What's more, it would make no difference, she thought, the men of Harad would still be nearly three times as many as the men of Gondor.  She shuffled ideas over and over in her head, but each time the result was the same, the fair-skinned northern men would die at the hands of her father's soldiers.

Several times she caught her father watching her, a strange look on his face, but each time when he realized she had seen him he quickly turned away and busied himself with other tasks.  

She had gone to Boromir early in the morning and again offered him water, her spirits lifting when his green eyes opened at the sound of her voice.  Pulling him up into a sitting position as gently as she could, she guided the water skin to his mouth and let him drink.  She glanced around her before she whispered his name.  "Boromir."  The green eyes widened and met hers.  "He is coming," she said, looking into his eyes intently.  "Your brother – "

"Time to go."  Jekarr's command came from nearby, startling her and stopping the rest of her words.  

Shushuah forced herself to remain silent as the guard had the pony kneel and hoisted Boromir's limp body into the saddle.  He had been unable to stand this morning when they pulled him upright or even kneel, and so he had laid in the sand until he was forced onto the pony once again, his feeble moans of pain raking at Shushuah's heart.   She could see the blood and infection seeping from the hip wound as the guard pulled the ropes tight that bound his legs to the saddle and the horse.  

"Shushuah."  Al-jur Dhan motioned for his daughter to ride beside him this morning as they set off.  She hesitantly trotted her pony up to the front of the column and matched its stride to that of her father's.  His obsidian eyes rested on her for a moment, seeming to probe into her soul, and she felt decidedly uncomfortable.  At last, he spoke.  "I know what you did last night."  

She felt a cold shock in the pit of her stomach and looked away from him, fixing her gaze on her hands holding the reins before her.   She wondered what her father would do to her, knowing she had lied to him, had not just seen the soldiers of Gondor that were following but spoken to them, given them information.  Her heart was hammering so hard in her ears she barely heard his next words.

"How long have you known how to speak the Westron tongue?"  Dhan's voice was silky, yet curious, a dangerous combination from her experience.  

She felt a cold weight in the pit of her stomach.  "My Father, I – I know you are angry, but – "  

"I heard you talking to him last night, do not deny it."  Her father glared at her, his face so frightening in its anger she just looked at him with her mouth open.  "I heard you using the speech of his people."  His voice was trembling with rage and without warning he leaned toward her, grabbing her arm in his dark hand.  "Not just talking either, 'Shuah.  You were touching him like – like – "  he could not make himself go on.  "You kissed him!"  Horror and fury were mingled on his face.  

Shushuah suddenly realized he had followed and spied on her last night when she had been caring for Boromir.  She could see his anger and quickly lowered her gaze and tried to find a way to calm him.  "I am sorry, my Father.  I knew you would be displeased – "

"Displeased!!"  He shouted out the word, causing others in the column to look at them curiously.  "Why would you think that?  You thought that I would be displeased because you were spending your time with a criminal like Mohem learning a foreign tongue so that you could speak to our enemies.  Why would that displease me?"  He saw the astonishment on her face.  "Oh yes, I have already spoken to Mohem, I know all about your lessons." 

He released her arm and stared at her with murderous eyes.  "You thought I would be displeased to see you throwing yourself at a man who is our enemy, who would kill me and probably you if he had half a chance."  His was breathing heavily now.  "You thought I would be displeased to find you pretending to yourself that he was some suitor you were entertaining, rather than the dying piece of filth I know him to be?"  He seemed to catch his breath and stopped himself.

Shushuah had been staring at him in dismay as he ranted.  Now as he paused for a moment she found herself getting angry, and for the first time in her life raised her voice to her father.  "My Father, I am not throwing myself at him, and I am not pretending he is a suitor!  Just because I try to treat him with some kindness does not mean I am in love with him!"  

She stopped abruptly and looked away for a moment to calm herself.  When she turned back to meet his eyes her voice was quiet again.  "He is sick, Father, you said yourself he is going to die.  I do not want him to die alone, no matter who he is."  She paused. "All I can think of when I see him is Mo'Amar, and Jelaan, and Mother.  I just want him to know he is not alone."  She heard her voice breaking and a tiny sob escaped her before she clamped her mouth shut.

The Haradrim general rode without speaking for a long while, his eyes distant.  Shushuah kept her pony even with his, feeling miserable and frightened, all thought of the pursuing soldiers of Gondor driven from her mind.  She had realized as she spoke the words that she did fear Boromir would die alone, unaware that anyone cared for him.  She remembered her older brother, thrashing incoherently in his bed his last day before the fever took him; her mother, fading away after days of unconsciousness.  Only her little brother had known she was there, she had held him close as he slipped away from her.  She wept quietly as her pony picked his way across the desert floor.  At last her father spoke.

"Do not speak their names to me again."  His voice was strained and he did not look at her.  He kicked his pony and rode away from her without looking back.

*********************************************************************

They reached the caves of Falou by midday and Shushuah waited, letting the time pass until her father was occupied with settling in the soldiers before she went searching for Boromir.  He had been pulled from the horse he rode and carried further back into the maze of caves to a small storage area, and left lying on the sandy floor. A solitary torch lit the small room, casting its faint light only a few feet in any direction.  She knelt down and smoothed the sweaty hair back from his flushed face, her hand lingering on the scabbed over scratches on his feverish cheeks.  "Boromir, hold on," she said, "Now you have some time to rest."  There was no answer from the man before her.

"'SHUAH!"  Her father's voice bellowed from the front of the cavern and she quickly jumped to her feet and hurried to meet him.  The look on his face when she arrived at the main chamber told her he suspected where she had been.  He turned to Jekarr, who straightened and bowed his head, causing Shushuah to wonder what was happening.  Abruptly her father turned and jerked his head toward the front of the cave.  

"Come, we are going."  He walked past her without further comment, leaving her to run after him in confusion.  

"Going?  Where?" She halted in front of the cave, seeing her own grey pony and her father's black had not been unsaddled, along with those of the servants, several of the packhorses and a small group of the Haradrim soldiers.

"To Dalania," said her father, checking the binding on his pony's saddle.  At his word the servants and soldiers remounted their ponies and waited.  Shushuah took a step away from him as he faced her.  

"No."  She heard her own voice as if from far away.  

Immediately her father was beside her, his hand like a vise on her arm, his eyes burning into her.  "Get on the horse, 'Shuah."  He jerked her toward her pony.  

"I will not," she cried out, trying to pull away from him.  

"You will."  He pushed her against the pony's shoulder, his black eyes bottomless.  "I will not stay here while you fall in love with him, just to watch him die and remind you of – them.  I will not do it.  Get – on – the - horse."

"But  Father," she began to cry as his hand squeezed her arm cruelly.  "Let me say goodbye.  I cannot just go."

"Yes, you can.  He will not even know if you tell him goodbye or not."  He forcibly turned her and put her foot into the stirrup.  She did not try to resist him, unused to opposing him, and unable to see through her tears.  He boosted her up onto the pony's back and then quickly mounted his own.   Jekarr had come to the front of the cave to watch their departure and Dhan looked down at him.  "Let me know when you get to Dalania."  Jekarr nodded and reached out to pat Shushuah's foot.  

"Don't cry, 'Shuah," he said comfortingly.  "Remember, it is all for the best."   

She shook her head and looked down at him.  "Don't let him die alone, Jekarr, please."  She spoke through stiff lips, her face coated with tears.

Jekarr shook his head in amusement and raised his hands as though to appease her.  "Yes, yes, not to worry.  I will keep an eye on him."  

She knew he was only humoring her and screamed with frustration.  "I mean it, Jekarr!  Do it!"  She stopped herself and lowered her voice.  "Do it for me, please?"  Her father took the reins of her pony and started off, leaving her to do little more than hold on and weep.  "Don't let him die alone," she called out, "Jekarr!"

They rode away into the hot desert afternoon, Shushuah's eyes locked on the caves until they disappeared from her sight.  Al-jur Dhan never looked back.

TO BE CONTINUED 


	7. The Caves of Falou

**Well, here we are – the big rescue. ** Many thanks for Benji again, and Princess Faz for beta'ing.  The "kick-ass" Faramir here appears to you courtesy of Athelas63 and Princess Faz, who started this whole story so we could have a "tender but tough" Faramir.  Also thanks to Clarion and Raksha the Demon for encouraging tough Faramir ideas.

**The Caves of Falou**

Isilan hunkered down behind a thick clump of grass and watched the proceedings in the Haradrim camp below him.  He was too far away to see details, but it was becoming evident that nearly half of their number was leaving, including the girl, who appeared to be crying and resisting a large, well-dressed officer, perhaps the father she had spoken about.  

The dark-haired Ranger pressed his belly against the sandy ground and stayed motionless, avoiding any movement that might reveal him to the foreign soldiers.  He scanned the area around him as he waited for the rest of his company to catch up.  

When Shushuah had left the Rangers the previous night, Anduron and Faramir had waited only until darkness fell before the entire company followed her tracks into the desert, their way brightly illuminated by the moonlight.  They had found the place where she had met two other riders, and seen that her belief her father would send out searchers had been correct.  Soon after, they had come upon the path of the entire Haradrim party, and had followed that until the sleeping camp had come into sight.  

There had been some consideration of attacking then, however it was nearly dawn, and Anduron had counseled patience.  Faramir's opposition had been quite evident, but his captain's experience far outweighed his and after a quiet but forceful discussion he had reluctantly agreed.  Anduron had assured him that they would follow the Haradrim hard and fast across the desert that day and attack as soon as possible.

"We are outnumbered, my lord."  Anduron had said, trying to make Faramir see the sense of waiting.  "We gain nothing by forcing our hand too soon."

"I gain nothing by letting my brother die before I get there."  Faramir shot back, his eyes flashing.

Anduron had decided to let it drop and simply walked away, knowing all his reasons would not outweigh Faramir's concern for Boromir's life.

As the sun had risen the Haradrim were up and packed in a matter of minutes.  Anduron was on guard duty and saw what appeared to be an injured man dragged forward and placed upon a desert pony.  He said nothing to Faramir, seated behind a clump of bushes nearby with the other Rangers.  There was no point, the captain thought, to have the younger brother see the older from this distance when he was unable to help him.  It might even encourage him to do something foolhardy.  Anduron waited until the entire party was mounted and trotting away before he called the Rangers to their feet and the pursuit began.

The fastest among the group was Isilan, and he had instantly volunteered to be the one who took the lead and made it his duty to never lose sight of the enemy.  He had managed to stay with them almost the entire morning, never more than a mile behind, and only once loosing sight of them entirely on the plains.  Now they had stopped before a rocky, jagged bluff and appeared to be preparing to stay.  Desert ponies were unloaded and corralled in a nearby gully while the Haradrim soldiers themselves carried supplies and other bundles into the large mouth of a cave visible at the foot of the cliff. 

Isilan took a sip of his water and wiped his face, glad they had stopped.  It would give him a chance to rest and the others an opportunity to catch up.  He glanced up at the sun, a little past noon, and settled back into a more comfortable position, keeping his eyes on the activities of the camp now being set up in the cave. 

The girl was now on her horse, the officer leading it away and the others were following behind.  By his earlier calculation, there had been nearly forty in the camp.  Swiftly he tried to count departing horses.  At least eighteen, although not all of them had riders.  He strained his eyes to see if one of those riders could be the young Captain of Gondor, but it was too far to discern figures, let alone faces.  His clue as to the girl's presence had initially been seeing her grey horse.  While some of the figures now riding away were obviously too small to be Boromir not all could be so easily dismissed.  He watched, chewing a fingernail thoughtfully.  Should he follow them, or stay with the group in the cavern?  Did the girl leaving mean anything?  She was obviously upset.  A sudden thought left him cold – perhaps the captive had died and there was no reason for her to stay.  He was torn, but finally decided to wait, reasoning the rest of his company could not be far behind.  

In less than an hour Faramir appeared noiselessly beside him.  "Well?"  His eyes were locked on the camp under the cliff as Isilan made his report but his gaze snapped to the scout's face when Isilan told of the smaller group's departure.

"How many?"  

"Eighteen horses, my lord.  Not that many riders, perhaps twelve or fifteen."

"The girl, too?"  Faramir felt worry creep across him.  

"Yes, sir."  Isilan said, seeing the effect of his information on his lieutenant's face.  "I tried to see if one of the others could be your brother, but I could not tell from here.  It did appear that the girl did not want to go, another man was forcing her."  He hesitated.  "If you want, my lord, I can follow them." 

Faramir looked at the soldier, taking in the drawn look and the dark circles under the eyes, knew he had pressed himself hard to keep up with the Southrons.  "No, Isilan, you have done enough."  He rolled over onto his back and thought for a moment.  "Go and give your information to Captain Anduron, he is back about half a mile.  I will stay here until you – or someone else – comes to relieve me."

"Yes sir."  Isilan scooted backwards from the grassy clump for a ways before scuttling away.  Faramir rolled back on his belly and peered through the grass, trying not to worry.  Why would some of them leave?  What about the girl?  He determinedly forced the thoughts to the back of his mind.  If they did not find Boromir here, then he would have to push on and follow the other Haradrim.  He suspected Anduron would not be willing to go deeper into Harad, but Faramir decided he would face that problem when the time came.  No use worrying about that now, he told himself.  For now he would just keep his eyes on the movement in the camp.  

The afternoon wore on and Faramir could see the Haradrim going about the business of daily camp life.  Feeding the horses, cleaning weapons, cooking a meal.  They wandered in and out of the mouth of the cave without concern.  Faramir did not even see a guard posted.  Perhaps they thought they were so far in their home territory they had no need.   He smiled grimly to himself, thinking he would be more than happy to prove them wrong.  It was dusk when Anduron came creeping through the sand to join him.  

"I let the men have a rest and a bite to eat," he said by way of explanation as to his late arrival.  "Here."  He handed Faramir a piece of dried meat and stared down at the cave, now barely visible in the fading light.  As he chewed, Faramir told him of the afternoon's happenings.  

"Not even a guard?"  Anduron grinned slightly.  "That would certainly be nice for us."  

Faramir nodded.  He hesitated before continuing.  "You heard what Isilan said?"

"That some of them left, including the girl?  Yes."  Anduron was sure Faramir was already turning over an alternative plan in his head, in case they did not find Boromir here.  "I cannot worry about that until I have to, my lord.  Let's see what we find here, all right?"  Faramir nodded reluctantly.

Anduron looked at his lieutenant for a long moment and Faramir could see him weighing something in his mind.  At last his captain spoke.

"Faramir, you were right about the girl.  She apparently did not tell them about us."  The older man looked down at the complacent camp.  "I'm glad you were right.  I did not trust her to keep silent."

Faramir said nothing, only shrugged and kept his eyes on the dark soldiers moving about the mouth of the cave.  "I cannot explain it, I just saw it in her eyes," he said finally.  He looked back at his captain.  "Sometimes I just know…"  He shrugged again, as though in apology.

Anduron thought of the tales he had heard of the Steward and his ability to shrewdly read men's hearts, and he eyed the young man beside him thoughtfully. 

"Well, the rest of the company is just beyond that tree," he said, pointing behind them.  He looked up at the sky; it was going to be another bright, moonlit night.  He shot a look toward the Haradrim camp.  "Let's give them a few hours to get good and asleep, then we'll move in."  

************************************************************************************************************************

Jekarr yawned and scratched his head absently.  It was nice to have a few days in the same place, not always be packing up each and every morning and setting off somewhere.  He gave a self-conscious grunt of laughter.  It was nice to not have General Dhan breathing down his neck every minute of the day!  The man was bad for morale, the way he was always stalking around checking on everything, insisting on strict military protocol, barking orders and in general acting as though they could expect an enemy attack at any moment.  Every man in the troop had breathed a sigh of relief when he left, Jekarr most of all.  This was his troop, or had been until Dhan caught up with them on the way to Dalania and shown Jekarr his orders allowing him to travel with them.  Since then, Jekarr had felt like he was a new private, not the leader of his own troop.  Now things could get back to normal.

He was sorry to see the girl go, however.  She was a pretty thing and having a woman to keep the men's thoughts occupied always made for a more pleasant trip.  For them, at least, he thought with a leering grin.  She had not seemed to appreciate the attention of many of his soldiers.  Thinking of Shushuah made him remember her request and he frowned.  General Dhan had been very clear.   "Let him die, Jekarr," he had said, his black eyes glittering.  "No water, no food, nothing.  I don't want him somehow surviving this and showing up in Dalania when you arrive."

Personally, Jekarr thought the chances of the Gondorian surviving and making it to Dalania were negligible, but he had agreed, had even offered to kill him.  

"No," Dhan's voice had been adamant.  "I promised her I would not kill him.  But I told her he would die and he will."

Jekarr had seen the general's point and felt little remorse.  It would certainly not be the first time an enemy had died at his hand, in whatever manner.  But then as she had been taken away, Shushuah had made her tearful request.  That he not die alone.  That was all she had asked.  Jekarr thought he understood; it was because of the plague.

He knew he would never forget the silent, deserted city that had met his troops when they had returned from maneuvers to the north last year.  Over two-thirds of the people had died in less than a month.  The bodies were piled in the streets and the stench was unbearable.  Cruelest of all to those who survived was the fact that the sickness touched them not at all.  They were merely left to nurse the sick and bury the dead, never knowing what made them immune.  Jekarr had not known General Dhan then, or Shushuah, but as they had traveled these last few weeks together, she had often spoken of those days when she and her father had watched the rest of her family perish.  The great general had been unable to find the strength to face the loss of his wife and sons and had locked himself in his study, leaving his daughter to tend them as they grew weaker and weaker and then died.  

She had spoken of it several times to Jekarr and her greatest regret was that the older brother and the mother had been unaware of her presence at their passing.  "They died alone, Jekarr," she would whisper, her eyes blank as she remembered.  "I was right there, but they died alone."

Jekarr shifted beside the fire and considered her appeal.  She had merely asked him to be near when the Gondorian finally breathed his last and that was easily arranged.  Regardless of the general's wishes, Jekarr had no problem with slitting the captive's throat and getting it over with.  He had unfinished business with the Gondorian at any rate.  The memory of the challenge in those green eyes that first day still rankled.  He got to his feet and made his way down the dark passageway cut into the stone.

The dim glow of a single torch was barely enough light for him to find his way to the storage room where his soldiers had dumped the unconscious prisoner.  Jekarr peered down, slightly disappointed to find him still breathing.  Then he sighed in disgust.  He knew Shushuah would ask him when he returned to Dalania and he did not want to have to face her with an unsatisfactory answer.  She was a smart girl and would question him if she suspected anything.  Her suspicions would raise her father's, of course.  Not to mention if Al-jur Dhan did come back for the body there would be a problem.  He would not care that the man had died but finding Jekarr had disobeyed his specific orders would be certain to anger the temperamental general.  

Jekarr rubbed the back of his hand across his nose and considered the prisoner.  Better to let him die on his own, if he would just get on with it.  He was a big man, and the Haradrim remembered his strength from the day of his capture.  Even with the arrow wound and a sharp blow to the head he had been hard to control.  No doubt that physical strength would keep him alive much longer than Jekarr would prefer.  Still - he leaned down and touched the pale face - the fever and the infection would take him eventually. He just had to be patient.  Another day or two and the fever would do its work.  He withdrew his hand and the prisoner murmured slightly before falling silent again. 

"Commander!"  A voice called from the passageway.  "Altahn has found a store of wine jugs!"  

With a grin Jekarr turned away from the unconscious man and left the storage room, taking the torch with him.  He would check again in a day or so.  

In the dark aching fog that had become his world in the last few days, Boromir held fast to the words he had heard faintly spoken.  "He is coming, he is coming for you."  He could do no more than drift through the pain-filled blackness and wait for the promised savior.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Faramir had been correct; no guard was posted by the Haradrim.  They felt safe so far inside their own borders, and each man was sleeping peacefully, somewhat due to his share of the pilfered wine, when the Rangers of Ithilien moved silently toward the mouth of the cave.  With their advantage, the best archers of Gondor were able to quickly dispatch seven of their enemy before the Haradrim knew they were under attack. 

 Even after the Southron soldiers realized their situation, the speed and surprise of the assault left them on the defensive, desperately fighting against grim men determined to overwhelm and defeat them quickly, and after the first few moments of silent killing had passed, the Rangers drew their swords and began to battle in earnest against those Haradrim who were now awake and fighting for their lives.  

It was dim in the cave and the flickering light of the fire made it difficult to determine whether the shapes moving about were flesh and blood or merely shadows.  The struggle between nearly three dozen men in an enclosed cavern meant close-quarter fighting, and in a short time Faramir found himself backed into a corner by a large Haradrim with broken teeth.  He slashed furiously at the leering face, even as he felt the bite of the Southron's sword in his own arm.  Years of training had honed his reflexes to the second and with an abrupt move he had practiced at least a thousand times he suddenly drove the sword up and across the other man's throat, nearly decapitating him.  The blood fountained across Faramir's face, blinding him for a moment.  He heard Anduron shouting from nearby.

"Faramir!  To your left!"  Without trying to see the threat Faramir whirled and stabbed with the sword, feeling it meet solid flesh.  Dragging his arm across his eyes to regain his vision, Faramir saw a dark face looking with shock and dismay at the blade buried in his chest.  The man took a step back and Faramir could feel his weight slide from the sword as he did so.  Quickly he pulled his sword back for another strike but the Haradrim only took one step forward before Anduron's blood-covered sword slashed across his side and he pitched onto his face, blood covering the ground beneath him.  The captain gave his lieutenant a self-conscious grin of pride.

The noise in the cavern added to the confusion, the screams and shouts echoing off the stony walls and the sharp clanging of metal blades as they crashed together.  Faramir heard a voice across the cave crying "For Gondor!" and he followed it, finding a pair of tall Southrons bearing down on one of the Rangers.  The young lieutenant leaped across the hard floor of the cave to intercept them, his own sword catching one of the men of Harad's as it descended, blocking the blow and diverting their attention to him.  With a curse in Haradrim, both men turned, intent on killing him as quickly as possible, their black eyes bright with bloodlust.  

With a swift glance over his shoulder to see if the man he had assisted was unhurt,  Faramir tightened his grip on his sword and waded into battle as his mind neatly stepped back, coldly calculating how best to dispatch the two enemies before him.  Using moves drilled into him from childhood he thrust and slashed at the Haradrim, easily disemboweling one with a strong downward stroke.  The other hesitated as his companion fell to the ground screaming, his intestines slithering into the sand.  Then setting his jaw he raised his sword and attacked the soldier of Gondor, his face contorted with anger.  

Faramir was instantly on the defensive, this man was nearly a head taller than he was, and his arms were thick with muscles.  He slashed at Faramir with his huge sword, its curved edge missing the fair-haired soldier by mere inches several times.  Reluctantly Faramir took a step back, then another, suddenly feeling the weight of his own sword and the way his lungs were screaming for a deep breath.  Feeling stone against his back, Faramir realized he could go no further, he had been pushed to the wall of the cave.  The Haradrim grinned in triumph and raised his sword, the firelight glinting on the polished metal.  

Faramir was suddenly furious.  He had to find his brother; he had come for Boromir, he did not have any more time.  With a scream of defiance and rage Faramir raised his own sword and sprang forward, catching the taller man off guard.  He took a step back and Faramir drove his blade into the Southron, feeling the metal slide past the breastbone as he pushed it into the man's heart.  The black eyes opened wide and he made a wild swing at Faramir as he fell forward, crushing the man of Gondor beneath him.

The crack of his skull hitting the stone floor brought flashes of light into Faramir's head and he lay beneath the dead man for a moment feeling sick.  After a few minutes, however, he felt the body being pulled from on top of him and saw the Ranger he had saved earlier peering down at him.  "Lieutenant?"  The man's face was white.  

"I'm all right, help me up."  Faramir raised his hand and the Ranger pulled him to his feet.  Faramir felt the floor sway drunkenly, but waited a moment and it righted itself.  Dimly he realized the sound of combat was dying off, the crashing of swords diminishing, and he knew the fight was nearly finished.  He took a step and stumbled and instantly the Ranger beside him grasped his arm.    
  


"Sit down, sir, you're bleeding."   

"It's not mine," said Faramir even as he followed the other man's advice and lowered himself to the stony ground.  He reached behind him and felt the tender spot on his head where it had made contact with the floor.  It was already swelling and he could feel the stickiness of blood in his hair and trickling down his neck.

"Some of it is, Lieutenant."  He looked up to see Anduron standing above him grinning.  "By my count you killed three; you cannot have gotten nothing more than a bump on the head."  

"And a cut on the arm," said the other man, still hovering anxiously nearby.  He pulled Faramir's sword from the body of the Haradrim and wiped the blood on the dead man's robe before handing it to his young officer.

"And a cut on the arm," amended Anduron, his grin widening.  "We seem to have done quite well.  They are all dead and none of us are.  Besides you, we only have two other wounded, both minor.  I would call that a success."

"That's not why I came," Faramir gritted his teeth and attempted to stand up, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the earth tilt again.  "Now we have to find Boromir."  

Anduron's grin disappeared and he eased Faramir back down to the ground.  "I've already got the men looking through the tunnels.  Sit here a minute and let me see how much of this blood is really yours."  

In a few moments the captain found most of the gore covering Faramir was indeed that of the dead man beside him and the one he had almost beheaded earlier.  He tore of a few strips of fabric from the Haradrim's robes and wrapped them tightly around the slash on Faramir's arm, then examined the back of his head, noting that he expected the headache to get much worse based on the size of the lump.  Faramir only sat with his eyes closed and grunted.   

As the minutes passed and one Ranger after another reported no success in his search, Faramir began to have doubts.  "He's not here," he said quietly, his voice edged with despair.  "They took him with them, or," he paused, barely able to make himself speak the thought, "she lied."

Anduron tied a bandage around his lieutenant's head as tightly as he could, wincing in sympathy when he saw Faramir flinch.  "Don't say that, my lord.  This place is a maze, give them time to look through it all."

Faramir shook his head slightly, feeling the nausea of both the pain in his head and shattered hope steal over him.  "I have to find him, Anduron, I have to."

"I know, Faramir," Anduron's voice was quiet, meant for the ears of his young lord alone.  "We will –" 

"My lord!" Isilan's voice echoed down the stony corridor.  "We have found him."

Faramir was instantly on his feet, Anduron close behind with a steadying hand on his shoulder.  Each taking a torch from the wall, they followed the Ranger's call, the air growing colder as they moved further and further back into the bowels of the mountain.  Down one of the myriad channels cut into the rock they came upon a smaller cavern, barely more than a wide place hacked out of the sandstone.  Piles of goods lay scattered about, clothing, weapons, and cooking utensils, as though it had been used as some sort of storage area.  A dead Haradrim lay across their path, the dark face masked by blood.  Faramir merely stepped across him without comment; his eyes locked onto the form of a man sprawled on the cold gritty floor before him.  For a moment, he froze, sudden fear taking him.  Was he dead?  He felt his heart clench with panic, then release suddenly when he saw Isilan cut the ropes that bound the man's hands behind him and call his name softly.  

In a moment he was kneeling in the sand, handing Anduron his torch as he gently brushed the tangled blond hair back from the bruised face.  "Boromir," he said urgently.  His eyes quickly flicked over his brother's body, noting the inflamed gash across his ribs, the numerous cuts and scratches. He was clothed only in his breeches and his battered limbs shivered in the chill air.  "I am here, brother."  He gathered him into his arms, holding him close against his chest, tears filling his eyes when his embrace caused Boromir to shudder and cry out in pain.  "Boromir," he said, "wake up."

Boromir's eyelids fluttered and his lips moved soundlessly, forming his brother's name.  Faramir cradled his head in his arms, running his fingers along Boromir's sunburned face, feeling fever scald him wherever he touched flesh.  He winced when his fingers reached hair matted with blood, and the leaking gash along the scalp.   He withdrew his hand to find the palm covered in blood.

"My lord," Anduron spoke quietly, directing his attention to the blood-laced yellow pus seeping through the rent in Boromir's breeches.  "It is as the girl said.  This wound is infected.  That is causing the fever, no doubt."    

Carefully Faramir lowered his brother's body to the ground, biting his lip at Boromir's quiet groans.  He took his knife and cut through the cloth, stiffened with dried blood and discharge.  Pulling the fabric apart as the younger man worked the knife, Anduron exposed the left hip, swollen, mottled with black bruises and angry red streaks.  Boromir jerked and moaned, the sound stabbing his brother's heart and Faramir laid a consoling hand on his head as Anduron's fingers gently probed.  Buried in the center of the inflamed tissue was the entry wound, a hole with ragged edges, torn into the skin and muscle, dripping blood and poison.  His lips pressed together, Anduron examined the jagged fissure, moving as gently as possible.  Boromir cried out weakly at his touch.  "Probably the arrowhead is still in there, just as she guessed," said Anduron, his face grave.  

Faramir leaned over the semi-conscious form once more and stroked his brother's face tenderly, his fingers brushing across the scratched, discolored skin.  "Boromir," he whispered.  "I am here."  The sight of his strong, older brother lying broken on the floor of the cave made his stomach turn, but he swallowed and drew a ragged breath and spoke his name again.  "Boromir."

Boromir moaned and his eyes slid open slightly, dull with pain and fever.  He looked at his brother without recognition for a long moment.  At last Faramir saw something appear there, a glint of awareness.  "Far'mir?"  His voice was a mere whisper, faint, weak, shaky with illness.    

"Yes, I'm here," said Faramir reassuringly.  He wanted his voice to be strong, to give no hint of his worry and concern.  "Wake up," he said once more in as normal a tone as he could muster.  Taking his brother's hands, he gently chafed the swollen fingers, trying to restore circulation.

Boromir's face beneath the scabs and bruises strained as he made every effort to pull himself back into the world of consciousness, but it was too much effort for his small bit of remaining strength.  His green eyes went glassy and lost their focus on Faramir before drifting closed again almost immediately.   

"Boromir?"  Faramir released Boromir's hands and reached down to touch his face.

Anduron tried to restrain him.  "Let him sleep, at least for now."

"It's not sleep," Faramir said brokenly, gathering his brother into his arms again.    
  


"No," agreed Anduron, "but it is time away from hurting.  Let him have that."  He laid a comforting hand on Faramir's shoulder.

Near the front of the caves they could hear the rest of the Rangers as they searched the other corridors for remaining enemies and dragged out dead Haradrim.  

"My lord." The younger man raised his eyes to his captain and Anduron gave his lieutenant a searching look.  "We cannot stay here long.  They could be coming back with reinforcements."  His eyes dropped to the injured man, then met Faramir's again.  "Do we risk cutting out the arrowhead now?"  His face showed his own reluctance to that idea.  While most Rangers had some experience with removing arrowheads, cutting into a sick man in enemy territory was not something Anduron gladly anticipated.  "Or should we go as soon as possible?  There is danger either way," he said to his lieutenant.  

Faramir ran through his options in his mind.  Staying was out of the question.   As Anduron said, the Haradrim could return at any moment, in greater numbers.  They must move quickly.  But that meant either cutting out the arrowhead here, sure to be an unpleasant and dangerous operation, or taking Boromir with them on the long painful journey to Gondor with the thing still in him.  

He laid his hand across Boromir's forehead, smoothing back the snarled hair, feeling the heat rising from him, and realized he had no choice.  They had to get out of Harad as soon as possible.  This was the fourth day they had been across the Poros River.  Each day they were in enemy territory increased their chances of discovery.  Every step north was a step towards home and safety.  "We should go…" he said, his voice unsteady.

"I sent Nevan to gather up the horses," said Anduron quietly.  "We all have riding experience.  We can move twice as fast."

Faramir started shaking his head even as Anduron was still speaking.  "No, no.  I cannot do that to him.  Didn't you hear what the girl said?  He's been tortured enough on a horse."  

Anduron squatted into the dust and laid a calloused hand on Boromir's cheek.  He was aflame with fever.  The Ranger captain looked at his lieutenant, face spattered with an enemy's blood, his own blood staining the bandage around his head.  Sitting there in the guttering torchlight, his brother clutched to him, Faramir had let his guard down and suddenly looked just what he was, young, worried and exhausted.  Anduron reached over and clasped the tense shoulder in a reassuring grip.

"Faramir, listen to me.  You must think of what will be best in the end."  Anduron's hand moved from Boromir's cheek to rest gently on the head of the unconscious man.  "He must have a healer; there is little we can do, even if we get the arrowhead out of him.  For that we must get him home, in the next day or so, or it will be too late."

Faramir closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the throbbing in his head, wishing he were either older and knew the right thing to do, or younger and relieved of the need to make the decision.  At last he nodded and hoped he was making the right choice.  "All right."  

Anduron left them for a moment and went to gather the rest of the company.  In a matter of minutes he had given each man his orders and they were preparing to move out.  When he returned to the back cavern he could hear Faramir speaking softly as he approached.  "…you were here.  So we came for you."  Anduron could see the younger brother gently brushing back Boromir's blond hair and stroking his flushed cheek but saw no response from the elder.  He cleared his throat to announce his presence.  

Faramir looked up, startled. "Are we ready?" he asked quietly, once more the able lieutenant.  

"The horses are saddled and at the front of the cave."  Anduron made himself sound as though he were making a routine announcement rather than the commencement of a dangerous and tortuous journey.  He held out his own cloak and Faramir's, retrieved from the front of the cave.  "We can wrap him in these."

Faramir nodded and gestured with his head.  "Help me." Together they wrapped Boromir in the soft woolen material, covering his shivering body.   Then Faramir slid his hands under Boromir's arms and let Anduron take his legs.  They carried the limp form down the rocky passage and to the front of the cave.  The Rangers gathered there were shocked into silence at his appearance.  Anduron gave them a hard glare and each immediately returned to what they had been doing as he and Faramir gently lowered their burden to the ground.  Boromir whimpered slightly but remained motionless.

The dead Haradrim had been gathered into a large pile in the center of the cave.  Now as the Rangers prepared to leave, Faramir stood staring thoughtfully at the heap.  Suddenly he pulled out his knife and carefully cut the tree of Gondor motif from the leatherwork of his scabbard.  Searching through the debris in the cave, he found a Southron spear and viciously jabbed it into the ground before the pile of bodies.  He pierced a hole in the leather scrap with the end of his knife, then threaded a strip of cloth through it and tied it onto the end of the spear that jutted up before the faces of the dead.  

"When they find them, I want them to know Gondor was here," he said, his voice quiet but with a bite.  "This is the end of those who would harm the Steward's son." 

With that he turned and mounted his horse.  The desert pony pranced and circled but Faramir was an accomplished rider and within seconds had him under control.  "Give him to me," he said to Anduron, reaching down for Boromir.  The captain hesitated.  

"My lord, he will be a dead weight, and you yourself are wounded."  

Faramir said nothing, just fixed his blue eyes, icy now, on Anduron and waited.  The captain felt a shiver down his spine as he suddenly found himself looking into the eyes of not his twenty-year-old lieutenant but somehow the steely ones of the Steward of Gondor.  With a slight bow he motioned for another soldier to assist him and they lifted up Boromir's limp form so that Faramir could settle him on the horse.  

An agonized gasp escaped the wounded man when he was placed on a saddle once again, and Anduron saw Faramir's jaw clench.  He leaned forward and twined his brother's fingers into the horse's coarse mane.  "Hold on," he said softly.  Reaching around him he took the reins in one hand and hugged Boromir close with the other, pulling him slightly sideways so that the lolling head rested on his shoulder.  He gazed down at Anduron with determination in his eyes.  

"I plan to ride as though the entire Army of Harad is behind me." 

Anduron swung up onto his horse.  "I will be right beside you, my lord."

The Rangers of Ithilien cantered off into the moonlit night, taking the Steward's heir with them and leaving behind a pile of Haradrim bodies.

***********************************************************************************************************************

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. A Long Ride Ends With a Knife

**A Long Ride Ends With A Knife  **

They rode throughout the night, guided by a brilliant moon.  When Faramir had said he would ride as if the enemy were on his heels, he had spoken truthfully, never slackening the pace of his mount once they left the cavern.  Anduron stayed beside the young Lord of Gondor as he urged his horse across the sandy plains of Harad.  He could feel his pony beginning to tire after an hour or so, but when he glanced alongside him he could tell from Faramir's face there would be no stopping any time soon. 

The rest of the Ranger company followed close behind, each man clinging to his mount with the same determination as his officers, flattened to his pony and pounding through the sandy soil.  The moon hung above them in a clear sky, so dazzling that the desert ahead of them was awash in silver light.  Anduron could see trees, rocks and the rolling landscape as if it were already day.  He could see the Rangers strung out behind him, their expressions serious as they hunched over their horses.

Faramir knew his horse was weakening, but he drove it onward, his arm curled tightly around his brother, his face bleak and harsh in the moonlight.  His skull was pounding and he could feel the throbbing headache as it overtook over him, trying to lure him into slowing down, resting for a moment.  He tried shaking his head slightly to clear it, but only succeeded in increasing the intensity of the pain.  A faint moan came from his brother and his mouth tightened as Boromir's head bobbed against his shoulder.  Kicking the horse in the ribs he forced it forward into the night.

It was after sunrise when they finally slowed.  Ahead of them Anduron could see a sheltered gully, edged by some large boulders and surrounded by trees and bushes.  Guessing they had a good chance of finding water there, he pointed it out to Faramir.  "We need to stop there, my lord, the horses must rest and have water."  

Grudgingly Faramir agreed.  They came to a stop beside the largest rock, and the Rangers gratefully slid from their lathered mounts, the horses lowering their heads and blowing out great gasping breaths.  Anduron and Isilan caught Boromir when Faramir released his hold on him and gently carried him over beneath one of the larger trees and laid him in the sand.  Turning, Anduron saw Faramir get down from the horse and clutch the stirrup for a moment, resting his head against the pony's sweaty shoulder.  

"My lord?" he moved swiftly to help, but was waved away by the younger man.  

"I'm all right, Captain."  Faramir straightened.  "Just my head and that is to be expected."  He glanced toward the tree.  "How is he?"

"The same;" said Anduron, "feverish, insensible."

"Good," said Faramir.  "I hope he never remembers this night."  For a moment his mouth trembled as he looked at his captain.  "He kept moaning." Faramir's voice broke and he looked away, his blue eyes troubled.  

Anduron frowned, knowing the self-accusations that were filling Faramir's head.  He shook his head as he faced his lieutenant.  "We did the right thing, my lord.  We have come nearly forty miles; we can be across the river and in Ithilien tomorrow."

Faramir said nothing and Anduron knew he was thinking about putting his brother back into a saddle.  Deciding not to press, he motioned Faramir towards the tree.  "Go see to him."  He watched as his young lieutenant walked away, noting the way his steps dragged through the sandy soil.

The rest of the Rangers and their horses each had a drink of the cold water that bubbled from beneath the smallest boulder as they spread out among the trees to rest while Anduron placed two guards, determined not to make the same mistake the Haradrim had made.  The morning air was chilly, but Anduron knew it would not be long before the sun was high enough in the sky to turn the desert into an oven.  He moved among the men, encouraging them, making sure each had some water and a shady place to relax.  

Faramir sank down beneath the scraggly branches of the tree with a tired grunt and rubbed his head.  He could not remember ever being this tired before and now that he had time to think about how his head felt, he could feel the nausea crawling through him.  Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and reached over to carefully pull Boromir into his arms, moving slowly to avoid hurting him.  His brother's muscles were as tense as if he were still bracing himself against the movement of the horse.

"Boromir?"  He called his name anxiously, searching the flushed face.  "How are you, brother?"  He heard a slight catch in his brother's ragged breathing and looked down as pain-filmed green eyes opened and met his.    

"Faramir?"  The voice that answered him was thread thin.                                                          

"I'm here," Faramir whispered, pulling the cloak closer about Boromir's body as he felt him shiver.  "I'm sorry you had to ride…" his voice faded as he saw his brother's eyes drift closed again.  He held him close, feeling the heat of his fever against his chest.  

"Sir?"  He looked up to see Isilan offering him a freshly filled water flask.  "It's a little gritty, sir, but it's good and cold."  

"Thank you," said Faramir, taking the flask.  He held it up to Boromir's lips.  "Drink some water," he said quietly, letting a small amount run into his brother's mouth.  The wounded man took a few small swallows but then turned his head away.  Faramir made sure the flask followed.  "A little more," he encouraged, trickling another mouthful between his lips.   He managed to get several more swallows into him before Boromir gave a small sigh and relaxed against Faramir, his head resting on his brother's shoulder.

Faramir took a drink from the flask, savoring the sweet wetness.  The water was cold, cold enough to make his teeth hurt and increase the pounding in his head.  Taking another drink, he closed his eyes and settled back against the tree, letting the flask rest against his leg.  He could feel Boromir's solid weight against him and it was somehow reassuring, even as he worried over the fever.  He held him tighter and vaguely stroked Boromir's shoulder through the woolen cloak with one hand as weariness swept over him in great waves, slowing his thoughts, shrinking his surroundings until only he and his brother existed.

"My lord."  The captain hunkered down beside his lieutenant.

The slight jerk before Faramir opened his eyes told Anduron he had been asleep.  

"How are you feeling?"  Anduron asked the question even as he looked Faramir over, noting his hollow-eyed appearance.  

"Well enough."  Faramir shook his hair from his eyes and gingerly rubbed the back of his head with his free hand before lowering it to touch Boromir's cheek where it lay nestled against his breast.  "He's burning up," he said, worry in his voice.  

Anduron nodded and rested his own palm against Boromir's bruised face.  "We need to get that arrowhead out of him," he said in a low voice, watching as Faramir smoothed the blond hair back and frowned. 

"I have to get him home," Faramir pronounced it like a death sentence.  "If I do not get the arrowhead removed, this fever will kill him.  I have to put him back up on a horse and ride for Gondor, now" The look he gave Anduron was one of despair and resolve.  

Anduron started to disagree, to reassure him that they had time, but when he looked at the unconscious man before him, he hesitated.  In just a few days he had lost a lot of weight, his ribs and collarbones were beginning to be noticeable.  According to the girl, he had eaten very little while in her care, mostly drinking water, and not enough of that.  Now the fever was burning the flesh away from him and it was evident that it was worsening.  

The Ranger Captain laced his fingers together and regarded his young officer.  "It is another two days hard riding at least to Minas Tirith.  You cannot run a horse that far without killing it."

Faramir shook his head.  "I only have to reach the river."

Anduron cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly.  His young lord gave him an odd look, surprised that he did not understand and proceeded to explain.  

"My father will have sent reinforcements and they have had time to reach the river.  A regular troop of any size from the army will have a healer with them."  Faramir dropped his gaze to his brother's still face before he continued in a bleak voice.  "I must reach the river by tonight or I fear I will have no need of one."   

"By tonight?"  Anduron was skeptical.  "The river is probably another fifty miles, Faramir.  The horses cannot keep the speed needed to get there by tonight, not the way they have been run already."  He could see the hard glint appear in Faramir's eye and shook his head in exasperation even as he felt sympathy for the young man.  "My lord, if you run the horses to death before we reach the river we will be trapped here in the desert, and then he most assuredly will die."

Faramir's face was stony.  "I understand, Anduron.  But I do not have time to wait."  He looked down at Boromir.  "He does not have time."  He dropped his head a moment, resting his cheek on his brother's head.  When he looked up he gave a small nod.  "Let the horses rest for a while," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back against the tree again.  "We can leave again in a short while.  The ponies will just have to do their best."  

Anduron looked at his lieutenant and knew they would push for the river tonight.  He felt again the affection he had for the young man, and thought to himself that while he looked younger than his twenty years he had the grit and determination of few men the captain had known.  He stood up and squeezed Faramir's shoulder.  "We will make the river, my lord, we will see to it."

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Faramir felt his horse stumble and jerked the reins, pulling the animal's head up and somehow it righted itself and kept from falling.  He knew the little black horse was at the end of its strength.  They had been riding for hours and having had only the shortest of rests since their time in the gully earlier even the tough little desert ponies were at last beginning to weaken.  Two others had faltered in the last hour or so, one falling so hard that the front leg had snapped and the Ranger on him had been pitched into the sand.  There was nothing they could do except slit the animal's throat and ride double.  The second pony had not broken its leg but had been limping so badly that they pulled the saddle from it and left it behind, another pony being forced to carry twice the load.

Faramir could spare no sympathy for the ponies.  His only thoughts were centered on the feverish man before him in the saddle, the man who even now was lying against him heavily, so hot that the heat seemed to radiate from him, who no longer moaned in anguish but had slipped into a deadly silence.  Faramir gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the pony's sides, ignoring its labored breathing.  Flecks of foam dripped from its mouth, covering its chest and neck, yet still he pushed it to continue.

His captain was beside him, his own black horse struggling to keep up the pace.  Three times since they had left the gully Anduron had insisted they stop and let the ponies catch their breath, fearing they would collapse beneath them, but Faramir had forced them to keep such a quick pace that they were still nearly spent.  It was close to five hours since they had left the gully, and Anduron had not moved from his place on Faramir's left the entire time.  He knew Faramir would run all of the ponies to death to get Boromir back to Minas Tirith if he had to, and it was beginning to look like that was going to happen.  Anduron had seen his lieutenant's face harden when he had mounted his horse the last time with his brother before him, and had understood Faramir would do whatever it took to reach the river. Anduron and the rest of the Rangers knew there would be no more stopping and they pressed themselves close to the ponies' necks and demanded more than flesh and blood could give for very long.

It was late in the afternoon and the sun seemed to pound down on them with boiling heat.  Faramir could see it shimmering off of the sand and rock in front of him, the waves dancing before his eyes.  He could feel it baking what little remaining strength he had out of him, turning his resolve to hopelessness and his mind to dust.  Beside him Anduron leaned over his pony's neck, his eyes narrowed against the glaring white rays, while the men behind him rode silently, their faces covered in sweat and dirt, their eyes betraying their own fatigue.  

Faramir could feel Boromir's limp body sway with each movement of the pony, his heart thumping against his chest in a rhythm far more rapid than it should be and he knew the infection was burning throughout him.  He hugged his brother closer to him, feeling the fear that he had kept in the back of his mind push to the front.  The fear that had stalked him ever since he had seen him lying on the floor of the cave.  The fear that whispered that Boromir would die whether he reached the Poros or not.

The pony suddenly stumbled again and Faramir feared he and his brother would be tossed into the desert soil.  He braced his body, but the animal managed to right itself and started up a steep hill.  Faramir looked around and saw a clump of trees and a scattering of round bushes; it looked familiar somehow and he realized he remembered the hill from the first day they had crossed into Harad.  It was close to the river, they would be there soon.  "Soon," he spoke the thought aloud to Boromir, knowing he did not hear.

The pony struggled to the top of the hill, its legs trembling and head hanging, it would not last much longer.  He let it rest for a moment so it could catch its breath.  Hearing a soft groan from his brother Faramir looked down to reassure himself he was all right when he heard Anduron's glad shout.  

From the hilltop they could see the Poros River in the distance, and on this side of its waters scores of men were gathered while others could be seen still crossing, and floating high above them all was a black banner with the Tree of Gondor.

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Faramir watched anxiously as the healer gently moved his hands over Boromir, carefully examining each injury.  He was a tall, thin man with steely gray hair pulled back in a leather thong, of an age anywhere from fifty to seventy-five, it was impossible to tell.  His long sensitive fingers took their time as they traveled over the wounded man, cautiously probing and searching each cut and abrasion.  

The healer's wagon was small, but large enough to carry himself and his herbs and medicines, all neatly arranged in small boxes and chests, with adequate room left to hold a bed for an injured man.  A heavy canopy covered both sides and the top of the wagon while lighter curtains hung from both the front and back, shielding those inside.  Now Boromir's bloody breeches and the Ranger cloak were balled on the floor under the bed where he lay motionless.  Faramir crouched uneasily on the corner of the mattress near his brother's head, trying to keep out of the way.  

The wagon lurched and bumped along, already on its way to Minas Tirith, escorted by a company of Gondorian soldiers and the Ithilien Rangers.  The rest of those sent from the city, nearly three hundred men, had fanned out along the Poros River to guard the borders of Gondor against any other Haradrim raids.

The healer straightened, pressed his long fingers together and looked at Faramir.  "The other wounds are not so dangerous, but the arrowhead is causing the infection.  It is buried quite deep, my lord.  That is the first thing that must be tended."

Faramir nodded.  "Can you cut it out, Hethilin?"

"Yes," said the healer, "but it will be tremendously painful."  He pondered the injured man before him.  "That is a common place to hit bone," he said thoughtfully.  "If it has buried itself in the bone, as I suspect it has, it will be excruciating."    

Faramir looked down at Boromir's bruised face, heard his shallow, rapid breathing.  He had not moved or made a sound since Faramir and Anduron had carried him into the wagon.  Faramir reached over and pressed his hand against the hot skin.  "What about the fever?" 

"I have medicine for that, my lord.  It will take time, but it will help, once we have removed the arrowhead."  Hethilin sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on Boromir's chest, feeling his heartbeat.  His face was grave.  "The fever has left him very weak; it will be hard on him."

Faramir closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.  He was so tired.  Could he subject his brother to further torture?  Did he have a choice?  He felt the thoughts working through his mind sluggishly.  Hethilin watched him, his lined face full of sympathy and a healer's natural concern for the sick and injured.  When Faramir opened his eyes Hethilin said simply, "My lord, it must be done.  The arrowhead has corrupted the flesh and is spreading its poison.  It must be removed before the infection becomes strong enough to kill."   

The young Lord of Gondor hesitated only a moment before nodded his head in surrender.  "What do you want me to do?"

Hethilin turned and went to the rear of the wagon.  Opening a large chest he pulled out a leather-wrapped bundle.  "You will have to hold him down while I cut."  He looked back at Faramir.  "I have no medicine to help that kind of pain."  He pushed open the curtain that covered the back of the wagon and Faramir could hear him speaking to someone outside.  

Faramir swallowed and leaned over to slide his hand beneath his brother's head, lifting it slightly.  "Boromir."  There was no response, but when he spoke the name again the green eyes opened slightly, glazed with fever.  Faramir searched for a sign of recognition, but saw none.  "Boromir, we have to cut out the arrowhead."  He hoped his brother understood some of what he was saying. "Do you hear?"

Boromir's eyes focused on his brother for a moment before they filled with panic as the words filtered through his pain and exhaustion.  "Please don't…" he said, his voice so weak Faramir could barely hear him, "don't…" his eyes rolled eerily up into his head as he fell silent and his head sagged into Faramir's hand, his breathing resuming its harsh rhythm.  Faramir bit his lip and carefully lowered Boromir's head to the pillow, realizing with horror that his brother was going to have to endure more torment before he could rest.

Hethilin let the curtain drop and brought the bundle he had retrieved back to the bed.  Unwrapping the leather, he revealed various sharp knives of different sizes.  Searching through them he held up one judgmentally, then another, then a third before finally deciding on the first.  Faramir found himself suddenly feeling sick and quickly looked away.  

The curtain was pushed aside again and Anduron climbed into the wagon, finding little room.  Hethilin gestured toward the foot of the bed and Anduron nodded.  The healer turned to Faramir.  "Ready?"

Faramir pushed his own pain and fatigue as far away as he could and scooted up on the bed.  Hethilin cautiously turned Boromir on his side, facing his hip outward, exposing the wound, now a hideous mess of blood, pus and inflamed, angry flesh.  The edges of the entry wound had started to turn black and Faramir bit back the stricken sob that rose up in his throat.  The healer put a hand on the lean shoulder of the young man beside him, his slim fingers surprisingly strong.  "My lord, I am here to help him."  Faramir shuddered slightly and nodded.  He heard Boromir groan slightly and leaned over and spoke his brother's name, "Boromir, hold on to me."

He settled himself against the side of the wagon and pulled Boromir's head onto his lap, wrapping one arm around his brother's shoulders and grasping his upper arm with the other.  How many times his own head had been gathered into his brother's lap when he cried as a child, he thought to himself.  How many times in his life had he turned to Boromir for consolation?  Always it had been the elder who comforted, who strengthened the younger.  Until now.  He felt his heart lurch as he placed Boromir's arms around his waist.  "Hold on," he said again to him, nodding at Hethilin to begin.  Faramir felt the hands around him convulse weakly, catching a fold of his tunic within them.  Anduron moved down to straddle Boromir's legs, using his weight to hold him immobile.  

Taking a deep breath, Hethilin boldly cut into the irritated flesh and muscle beneath him.  Blood sprang up, along with a thick, curdled stream of greenish-yellow matter.  In Faramir's arms, Boromir gasped and jerked, his face contorted in a grimace.  His body arched and bucked in an attempt to avoid the knife and the agony it caused, but his younger brother held him tightly, while Anduron bore down hard, both of them effectively keeping him pinned beneath Hethilin's ministrations.  Even weakened, Boromir was a strong man, especially as he sought to escape of pain of Hethilin's knife, and it took all of his brother's strength to hold him.  Faramir hoped somewhere in his feverish mind he knew it was necessary, that he understood why his little brother forced him to endure such misery.  "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice.

Hethilin had cut out many arrowheads during his years of service to Gondor, and he worked his knife expertly, his eyes narrowed in concentration as his hand searched the bloody opening he had made.  Using the blade of the knife to push the edges of the cut apart, he slid his fingers deeper into the incision, causing fresh streams of hot blood to pour forth.  He could feel the sliminess of infection deep in the wound, and clots of pus were driven to the surface by the rushing blood.  Boromir writhed and moaned, trying desperately to pull away from the torture, but Anduron and Faramir held him firmly, although Anduron could tell by the look on Faramir's face it took all he had in him to remain still.  

A stifled cry finally broke from Boromir's throat.  A low, ragged groan that hung in the quiet air of the healer's wagon, followed by others, each one gaining strength until at last a raw scream rang out.

Faramir buried his face in the matted blond hair pressed against his thigh and closed his own eyes.  "Hold on," he whispered, "hold on."  Boromir's fingers dug into his back spasmodically as he screamed again, the sound weaker than before.  "Almost finished," Faramir promised, raising his head to meet Hethilin's gaze, the look in his anguished blue eyes begging the healer to make his words true.  

Setting his jaw, Hethilin spread the wound with his fingers, letting the blood run down Boromir's body and onto the blanket beneath him.  The healer jammed the knife down through flesh and muscle until he felt it grate against bone.  And something else, something metallic.  He closed his eyes, now, working by feel, edging the knife under the object, willing it to be released from the living bone.  At last he felt the tip of the blade catch, and he levered it downward, reaching in with his fingers and grasping the arrowhead that suddenly came into his hand.  A final scream was torn from Boromir as Hethilin pulled the bloody Harad arrowhead from his body.  He collapsed against his brother, his body trembling and soaked with sweat.  

Faramir held him tightly in his arms, stroking the hot head with his cheek and talking in a soft, comforting voice.  "There, it's done, it's over."  He swallowed down the queasy lump in his throat, feeling the shuddering in the taut shoulder muscles that he embraced and the identical spasms in his own.  Boromir remained motionless, sprawled across his brother's lap, his eyes closed and his breath coming in gasps.  Anduron released his hold and sat back as he wiped a shaky hand across his own sweaty face.

The healer quickly trimmed off the blackened flesh and cleaned the wound with water and dark red liquid from a round bottle before packing the gaping hole and pressing down hard to stop the blood that was soaking through the cloth. 

"I cannot sew this shut, yet.  The infection will need to drain for a few days," he said as he held the dressing against the bloody wound.   In a short while the bleeding slowed and he tied on a clean bandage.  There was only a slight tremor from Boromir as he continued to lie limply across Faramir, his head resting on his leg, his arms still wrapped around his brother's slim waist.  Faramir kept his own hold on his brother and murmured quiet words of encouragement in his ear.

When Hethilin was finished with the hip, he and Anduron gently turned Boromir over, pulling his arms from around Faramir's waist and returning his head to his brother's lap as the healer took the same bottle of red liquid and thoroughly cleaned the gash across the ribs.  Boromir moaned slightly in distress and Faramir reached down and squeezed his burning hand, feeling the weakness in the slight squeeze that was returned.  He could see the dark stain of blood on his own breeches where Boromir's head had been pressed against him.

"His head –" Faramir parted the matted hair slightly.  

Hethilin glanced up from his patient and nodded.  He finished bandaging the rib wound and moved beside Faramir.  Searching through the blood and blond hair he found the long cut, seeping blood and flecked with sand and dirt.  Pressing his lips together he rinsed the cut several times, flushing it clean before he reached for a small box and took from it a needle and thread.  With steady movements he neatly stitched the cut closed, Faramir's hands holding the blond head quiet in his lap.   Afterward, the healer covered the gash with brown ointment and another bandage.

Taking a basin from the front of the wagon Hethilin poured in water from a nearby jug, and dropped in a fine mesh bag of powdered herbs.  As they soaked the water turned a pale brown and Hethilin moistened a soft cloth and proceeded to wash the blood and dirt from as much of Boromir's bruised body as he could.  The herbs smelled sweet and Faramir saw his brother's face begin to soften and look peaceful.  

"This will help the sunburn, too," Hethilin said quietly as he rinsed the cloth and continued wiping the herbal water across the red, cracked skin on Boromir's shoulders.  

Finally the healer opened a small box he had pulled from a shelf at the front of the wagon and drew out a tiny, brown bottle.  He took a cup and poured in a small bit of wine from another graceful bottle nearby.  A generous splash of whatever was in the brown one was added to the wine and he handed it to Faramir.  "He needs to drink this.  It will help the fever and the pain."

Faramir raised his brother's head up and let him lean back against his chest.  "Boromir."  A weak groan was his only answer.  He placed the cup against his brother's lips.  "Come.  Drink this."  The wounded man did not resist as Faramir tilted the cup and let the liquid run into his mouth.  A few fitful swallows and it was gone.  "Good," said Faramir, "well done."  He gently returned his brother to the clean blanket Hethilin had placed beneath him.

When Hethilin saw he was finished he retrieved the cup and looked at Faramir.  "We have done what we can; now it is up to him."  He pulled another blanket up from the foot of the bed and covered his patient.  "He needs to sleep."

Faramir watched his brother's face closely, but it was quiet and still, now, and when he spoke to him, there was no answer.  He stood up reluctantly.  

"Let him sleep," said Anduron, who had seen enough battlefield injuries to know there was little else they could do.  He saw the worry in his lieutenant's face.  "Just give him some time," he said, his voice gentle.  "He's young and tough, he'll be all right."  

Faramir noticed Hethilin said nothing and he shot an intense look at the healer.  The gray-haired man tucked the blanket around Boromir as he got to his feet.  "I am concerned," he confessed. "He is weak and his fever is very high."

"Will he live?"  Faramir's blue eyes drilled into those of the healer.  

Hethilin hesitated.  "I believe so, my lord.  But the next day or two will be a dangerous time."  Dread flooded the younger brother's face.  "Do not fear," said the healer, "I will keep watch over him.  Right now he needs to rest.  And you, my lord, also need looking after."  He looked at Faramir with concern and reached for the bloody strip of cloth circling Faramir's head.  "Let me look at you."  

"I am fine," Faramir went to brush his hand away but Hethilin caught it and looked at the younger man soberly.  "My lord, you are not 'fine'".  He firmly pushed Faramir's hand back down and pulled the torn bandage from his head.  "Let me see this.  Sit down."  He pointed to a wooden box beside the bed and Faramir obediently lowered himself.  "Lean forward," Hethilin said brusquely.  He probed the lump at the back of Faramir's head, brushing aside the red-gold hair to get a better look and listening with interest to the stifled groans coming from the lieutenant who was 'fine'. 

"You probably have a concussion," he said, shifting his eyes from Faramir to Anduron, still standing by the curtain.  "And that cut is deep.  Here."  Taking up his medicines again he proceeded to clean and bandage Faramir's head as he had his older brother's.  

"There is a sword cut on his arm, also," said Anduron quietly, calmly returning Faramir's annoyed stare.  The healer waited while Faramir revealed the blood-stained bandage and motioned for him to pull off his tunic, clucking his tongue at the red, slightly swollen edges of the gash that was soon revealed.  

"You cannot ignore even the slightest wound, my lord.  They are all dangerous." He looked the wound over thoughtfully.  "This should be stitched."  

"It is fine."  Faramir went to stand up, only to be forced down again by Hethilin.  

"My lord, let me do what is needed."  Receiving no further resistance, Hethilin quickly threaded a needle and in a matter of seconds had put in five precise stitches, tactfully ignoring Faramir's small gasps each time the needle slid through the flesh.  When he was finished he smeared on a layer of brown ointment and looked into Faramir's eyes seeing weariness and pain there.  "You should rest, my lord."  

Faramir shook his head, shutting his eyes for a minute in response to the shooting pain that produced.  "I can rest when my brother is well and safely home."  He stood up, pulling his tunic back on and walked toward the back of the wagon.  "You will stay with him?  I will come check on him often." he turned to Hethilin, who nodded in agreement.  

Anduron stopped him at the curtain.  "Faramir, what are you doing?  Stay here, stay near to you brother, get some sleep."  

Faramir looked at him, then back at his brother lying motionless on the bed.  "I cannot rest.  My duty to my father is not fulfilled until Boromir is well and back in Minas Tirith.  Until then, I am responsible."  He pulled the curtain back and started to step through it. 

"My lord." Hethilin stepped forward and placed the arrowhead in Faramir's hand.  He rolled the metal point between his fingers thoughtfully, his gaze locked on his brother's pale, drawn face.  Without a word he stepped down from the wagon.

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TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Into a Loving Embrace

**Into A Loving Embrace**

Anduron watched as Faramir slumped lower in the saddle.  He had been riding asleep for nearly an hour now, and his captain had no plan to wake him, short of what he might have to do to keep him from falling completely off his horse.  He knew the boy had to be completely worn out; Anduron was exhausted and he had been getting twice the sleep Faramir had.  They had reached the Poros River three days ago and the security of their own lands but still Faramir had been unable to rest.  Anduron knew that although their safety had been assured once they crossed the river into Ithilien, the reason now was worry over Boromir.  

The older brother was gravely ill, his fever raging, his mind clouded. The Ranger captain could see the worry on Hethilin's face in the rare instances when the healer left his wagon for a few seconds. When Anduron had made his usual visit last night as they made camp he had watched as Hethilin repeatedly sponged cool water over the feverish face and body of the young Captain of Gondor and feared Boromir would not live to reach the White City.  He had urged Faramir to stay with his brother in the wagon, but he had refused, repeating woodenly that his duty was unfinished until they reached the city.  Privately Anduron suspected Faramir feared being present at what could become his brother's deathbed.  So Faramir stayed on his horse, the same little mount he had ridden from Harad, going to the healer's wagon often to check on Boromir and each time he returned to his captain only to report that Boromir's condition was unchanged.   

There were dark circles under Faramir's blue eyes, and tight lines around his mouth and Anduron could see that his lieutenant was now drawing on his last reserves of strength.  The head injury he had suffered at the caves was still hurting him, Anduron knew, despite the fact that Faramir said differently, and he was eating almost nothing and barely sleeping.   Soon there would be nothing left to sustain him and Anduron feared he would collapse from the strain.  He kept his eyes on the young man's lean frame as the horse plodded along.  

In the distance, a white speck glittering in the sunshine gave notice that they would be home soon.  The city of Minas Tirith gleamed like a miniature diamond to the west, a welcome sight for the entire company, no more so than the Rangers under Anduron's command.  He saw the eyes of the men stray to the city frequently as they rode; the glad smiles immediately followed by wary looks aimed toward first the healer's wagon and then the second son.  Anduron knew their thoughts for he shared them as well.  They were returning home with Boromir, true, even if badly injured, but Faramir, and those who had accompanied him, had gone into Harad without permission.  It was anyone's guess as to what kind of reception they would receive from the Steward.

Ahead of them, Anduron saw the curtain across the back of the healer's wagon suddenly twitch open and Hethilin stepped out.  He looked across the company, his eyes soon resting on Anduron and Faramir and jumped down from the step, quite nimbly for elderly man.  As he approached, Anduron could see him eyeing Faramir's sleeping form.  The older man raised an eyebrow at the captain and as he grasped the reins of Faramir's mount Anduron slowed his own horse, trying to read the healer's expression.

"My lord," he spoke softly, trying not to startle the sleeping man.  "My Lord Faramir."

Faramir's head jerked up and his eyes opened wide, staring at the healer for a moment before they focused.  When he saw the grey-haired man before him horror filled his face.  

"He's dead."  Faramir's voice was flat.

"No, no, my lord, he is better," Hethilin hastened to reassure him.  "The fever has broken, he is awake, and asking for you."  He smiled.  

Faramir looked at him uncomprehendingly before suddenly sliding from his horse and hastening toward the healer's wagon.  Anduron and Hethilin watched him go and exchanged glad smiles.  

"Maybe now he can get some sleep," said Anduron, shaking his head.

"Looked to me like he was sleeping here," Hethilin laughed, his worry about his patient now relieved.  "But I will try to keep him there for some real rest, if you don't mind."  

"Not at all."  Anduron grinned, feeling his own heart lift, a weight suddenly gone from it.  "Keep him as long as you like."

Reaching the healer's wagon Faramir climbed inside and went to the bed.  Boromir lay quietly, no longer tossing restlessly in the depths of feverish nightmares.  His eyes were closed, but they opened when he felt his brother take his hand, and he smiled.  

"Hullo," he said softly.

Faramir did not think he could trust himself to speak so he said nothing, merely squeezed Boromir's hand and returned the smile.  His brother looked at him for a minute, his green eyes still hazy from Hethilin's medicines.   "You look terrible," he finally said in a pleasant voice.  

Faramir grinned then.  "I have had a bad week," he said, reaching up to rest the back of his hand across his brother's forehead and finding to his relief it was indeed much cooler.  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Boromir closed his eyes.  "Tired," he said.  He lay still awhile and Faramir silently took in the fading bruises and the thinness in his cheeks.  When Boromir opened his eyes he looked around him curiously.  "Where are we?"  

"In the healer's wagon," said Faramir.

Boromir's face was puzzled.  "Why, is someone injured?"  

Faramir looked around with a worried expression at Hethilin, who had entered the wagon quietly and was now moving his supplies around to make a little more room.  He gave Faramir a slight, reassuring smile.  "It is the medicine, it addles his wits, it will pass."

Faramir turned back to his brother, who was still looking at him inquisitively.  "Yes," he said softly, "someone was badly injured, but he is doing better, now."  He squeezed Boromir's hand again as the green eyes drifted shut.

"My lord?" Hethilin gave Faramir a gentle nudge as he sat on the edge of the bed.  "I want to change the dressing on the hip wound again.  No, wait –" he protested as Faramir started to stand up.  "Stay, just move up a little."  He pointed to the head of the bed where there were several extra blankets piled.  "Just make room there."  He frowned.  "Take off your boots, he does not need kicked."  Sighing, Faramir obeyed, pulling off his boots before sliding onto the bed.  He tried to push the blankets out of his way, but there were quite a few and he soon gave up and merely settled himself in among them.  Boromir groaned slightly as Hethilin helped him onto his side and started to loosen the bandage and the healer looked at Faramir.  Without being asked Faramir knew what he wanted, having helped Hethilin change the dressing several times before, and he shifted slightly, pulling his legs up and moving the pillow so that Boromir's head rested against him.  This time, however, Boromir knew he was there and reached up, groping with his hand.  Faramir immediately grasped it and put his other arm around his brother's shoulders.  "I am here," he said reassuringly.

Hethilin removed the bandage, nodding to himself with satisfaction to find the discharge on the bandage lessened and the redness and swelling beginning to fade a little.  As the healer busied himself cleaning and dressing the wound, Boromir's grip on Faramir's hand tightened and he grunted in pain.  

"I'm sorry, my lord," said Hethilin apologetically.  "I know it hurts."  

"Then stop," said Boromir tersely, bringing a smile to both the healer and his brother's face.  A cranky patient was always a good sign.  

"No, I cannot stop."  Hethilin finished and looked around, searching for his medicine chest.  Locating it, he mixed another draught of medicine in a cup of wine.  "My lord," he said, offering it to his patient.  

Boromir sniffed without opening his eyes.  "I don't want it."   

"You don't want to start hurting again, either," said Hethilin.  "And you will if you do not drink this."  

"Drink it," urged Faramir.  "You need to rest."  He did not see the amused look Hethilin gave him as he encouraged his brother to get the very thing he also badly needed.  

Boromir allowed Faramir to help him sit up a little and the healer to hold the cup to his mouth as he reluctantly swallowed.  As he lay back Faramir looked at Hethilin.  

"Should I go?" he asked quietly.  Hethilin pulled the blanket back over his patient and shook his head.  As he did so Boromir reached out his hand again.  

"Stay with me, little brother."  He smiled a little and relaxed against Faramir as his brother immediately sat back against the blankets and grasped his hand again.  After a while he spoke drowsily.

"Faramir?"

"Yes?"

"Am I the injured man?"  Faramir was confused for a moment until he realized it had taken all this time for their initial conversation to work through Boromir's drugged mind.  He hugged him gently.

"Yes, brother, you are," he said, his voice quiet.  

"Mmm."  Boromir's breathing was steady and even.   Hethilin's medicine worked quickly and he was already half asleep.  "…knew you would come…" he murmured after some time.  "She said you would…"

"Who?" Faramir asked even though he knew the answer. 

"Girl…there was a girl…said you …coming…"  He stiffened suddenly.  "The man…with black eyes…"

"Shh, shh," Faramir comforted.  "He is not here."  He felt Boromir shudder slightly where he leaned on him.  "I am here, you are safe," he said and gently rubbed the tense shoulders until he felt the muscles loosen and Boromir's head lay heavily against him.  

Hethilin looked up from where he had been kneeling on the floor putting away medicines and supplies.  "I need extra water, my lord, will you stay with him until I return?"  At Faramir's nod he picked up a large jug and left the wagon.  

Faramir leaned back against the blankets and closed his eyes, unaware that Hethilin had placed them there precisely to make the corner of the bed more comfortable.  They made a soft backrest and Faramir couldn't help settling his aching body into them a little more.  He could feel Boromir's hand, now cool, still clasped in his, and hear the soft sounds of his brother's breathing, and for the first time in days he felt the tightness in him let loose.  The rocking of the wagon was comforting and the muffled sound of the men marching outside mixed with the creaking of the saddles and soft plodding of horses hooves made a soothing background drone.  Without realizing it Faramir was drifting off to sleep and he sank heavily into the blankets.  "I am here," he said softly, resting his free hand lightly on his brother's chest.  "You are safe."

Hethilin took as long as he possibly could to get the water, and when he came back to check on them in twenty minutes, they were both sound asleep.

**********************************************************************************************************************

Anduron arched his back and stretched.  Only a few more miles to go, they should be home by evening, he thought.  The walls of Minas Tirith reared up ahead of them, beckoning them onward.  Beside him, Hethilin rode in companionable silence.  The healer had climbed onto Faramir's horse without complaint after finding his plan had been successful and the two men had ridden together for a long while, initially discussing Boromir's recovery, then Faramir, and then the several possible receptions their arrival in the White City might warrant.  Occasionally the healer would dismount to look in on the brothers, but it had been several hours and they still slept and he and the captain had both agreed to leave them as long as possible.  

Now as they rode along they could make out a small party coming fast across the Pelennor toward them.   Hethilin straightened in his saddle and gave Anduron a warning look.  

"Now we are for it," he said, only somewhat joking.  

Anduron looked at the approaching horsemen and felt his stomach contract nervously.  There were three horsemen and in the lead was a large black horse with a tall, well-built rider, and the standard-bearer beside him carried a white banner.  The Steward of Gondor had ridden out to meet them.

In the short time it took for him to reach the company, Denethor's eyes swept over the men before him, but did not find who he was seeking.   He reined his horse toward the Ranger captain halfway back in the group and turned his penetrating gaze on him as soon as he was near.

"Is he here?"  His grey eyes were demanding.  "The messenger said he was ill.  How is he?"  

Anduron bowed his head slightly before he answered his lord.  "Both of your sons are here, my lord.  Lord Boromir is injured, but recovering."  

Denethor's face showed his displeasure at the veiled rebuke in Anduron's reply but his concern over Boromir's injuries won out and he let it pass.  "How is he?"  Anduron looked at Hethilin and the Steward instantly turned his pointed gaze on the healer.

"He is better, my lord.  The fever broke this morning," said Hethilin.  He described Boromir's injuries and his subsequent fever and the stern face of the Steward blanched as he realized the severity of the wounds.  

"But he will live?"  Anduron thought he heard a catch in the sharp voice.

"Yes, my lord."  Hethilin's voice was reassuring.  "He will need time, but he will mend."  He paused, and Anduron noticed the lack of enthusiasm in his voice as he continued and hoped the Steward did not.  "Would you like to see him?"

"First I must speak with the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers."  Hethilin knew a dismissal when he heard one and giving Anduron a sympathetic glance he moved off, leaving the Steward and his captain alone.  Denethor looked at Anduron, his face cold.  "I should relieve you of duty right now," he said in a deadly voice.  "What were you thinking? Are you mad?  Going into Harad with a dozen men.  Why did you not wait?" He frowned at the captain.

Anduron opened his mouth and found himself at a loss for words.  How could he explain his actions when the Steward had not been there, could not know the look on his son's face that night by the fire.  He searched for a way to give some defense for the accusations he knew would be forthcoming against Faramir.  "We feared waiting would give them too much of a lead, that we might not be able to catch them once they had gotten so far ahead."

"We," Denethor weighed the word.  "We being… Faramir."   He snorted with disgust. "Do you take your orders from your lieutenant?  I have no doubt it was his idea and you merely followed."

Anduron felt the tension between them as he sought to answer his liege lord.  "My lord, he was going, I had two choices: watch him go alone, or go with him.  I took the course that seemed best to me."  Anduron stopped his horse and met the cold grey eyes across from him.  "I would not have been able to hold him back."

The Steward's mouth worked for a moment and he nodded in unwilling agreement.  "No, I suppose not, Faramir always does as he thinks best, he will take no counsel."  Anduron watched his eyes narrow.  "Yet he cannot just up and leave his post, much less take his captain with him.  There will be some kind of discipline, you can be sure."  He frowned again.  "In truth, he no doubt recognized the fault as his.  But for him, Boromir would not have been in Ithilien."

Anduron looked at him in shock.  "My lord, I hardly think it is Lord Faramir's fault if his brother decides to come to Ithilien."  

"Why else did he come except to see to his brother?"  Denethor's mouth twisted bitterly.  "Always Faramir has expected him to play the part of his nursemaid.  And now see where it has led."  He looked around him at the soldiers passing by.  "I notice he is not here with the others.  Is he hiding, trying to avoid me?"  He gave a short humorless laugh.    
  


"He is in the healer's wagon, my lord."  Anduron saw the surprise cross Denethor's face.  "He was also injured."

"The message said nothing about that," said the Steward, suspicion on his features.

"I believe it was Lord Faramir who wrote the message, was it not?"  Anduron asked, his tone sharper than he intended.  "He apparently did not include that news."

Denethor glared at him from hooded eyes, waiting.  "Well?" he said harshly when the Ranger captain volunteered no further information.  

"A blow to the head, my lord, and a sword wound."  Anduron paused.  "And very little sleep these last few days."

The Steward pondered the information as he started his horse moving again and the captain rode alongside him.  "Sword wound," he said thoughtfully.  "From the men of Harad?"

"Yes, my lord," said Anduron.  "We fought a small group when we took Lord Boromir back.  Lord Faramir killed three of them."  He slowed his horse as they reached the healer's wagon, hoping to defuse some of the Steward's anger before he spoke with Faramir.  "My lord, he has been an exemplary soldier for me, from the time he arrived.  He has never disobeyed an order, never given anything but his best effort."  The captain tried to make the father see the son through his eyes.  "His only thought for days has been to find his brother and return him to you."

Denethor grunted noncommittally and dismounted, followed closely by Anduron, who handed the reins of both their mounts to a soldier walking nearby.  

The Steward of Gondor grasped the back of the healer's wagon and pulled himself inside, only to stop suddenly; causing Anduron to bump into his back as he also entered the wagon.  Anduron apologized quickly, wondering what had caused his abrupt halt.  Looking at Denethor's stern face he was surprised to see the hard eyes soften slightly and the mouth, which always seemed to be compressed into a thin line, turn up in the slightest of smiles.

On the bed, Faramir was curled up in the nest of blankets Hethilin had made, Boromir's head still pillowed in his lap, his hand lying protectively across the elder brother's shoulder.  They were both sleeping, the limp, deep, heavy slumber of the very ill and those driven to the brink of physical collapse.  Identical bandages were wrapped around each fair head and in the shadowed light of the wagon they both looked thin and worn.

Denethor stood for a long moment.  So many times he had found them sleeping this way as boys, he thought, cuddled up together in the same bed, one's arm thrown over the other in a loving embrace.  Except something was different this time; this time it was the younger who was watching over the older.  This time it was Faramir who was keeping guard over his brother, keeping him safe and bringing him home.

Silently he took a step backwards, once again bumping Anduron, who quickly moved out of his way.  They stepped down from the wagon and Denethor turned to the captain, his face strangely pensive.  

The Steward reached for the reins of his horse and mounted, motioning for Anduron to do the same.  "Ride with me, Captain, and give me your detailed report," he said in a quiet voice.  "We will not disturb them.

"Yes, my lord."  Anduron bowed his head and climbed into his saddle to ride home with the Steward.

***********************************************************************************************************************

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Epilogue: The Steward's Letter

**Epilogue: The Steward's Letter**

Shushuah heard the sound of the door closing and the quiet greeting of the servants as she hurried down the hallway.  Coming into the entry of her home she approached the man standing there and knelt before him, catching his hands in hers and pressing her cheek to them.  "Greetings, my husband."

The tall man before her smiled and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her to press her against his travel-stained clothes as he hugged her tightly.  "Greetings, my wife."  He bent down and pressed his cheek to hers.  "I have missed you."

"And I have missed you, Salim."

Before he could say any more he was besieged by the children, all five crowding around him as they welcomed him home, from the grave eldest daughter to the wiry 8-year old boy.  "Father!" They pushed and shouted, each vying for his attention.  He smiled and spoke to each one before taking Shushuah's hand and leading her into the courtyard.  "I want to speak to your mother alone," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.  With a chorus of disappointed groans they left their parents and dispersed as quickly as they had gathered. 

Shushuah let herself be led to the carved stone bench beneath a grape arbor and allowed her husband lower her onto the seat and then join her.  He looked at her a moment and she could see he was unsure how to begin, so she asked brightly, "Tell me of your journey." 

"'Shuah, it is a beautiful city," he said quietly.  "It takes many days to get there, but you cannot believe the country you travel through.  Huge forests of trees and flowers, rivers wider than the main street of Dalania.  Mountains that reach so high, you cannot imagine.  And the city –" his dark eyes widened as he spoke, looking off in the distance, seeing again where he had been and she had not.  "The city rises up from the mountain, as though it were carved from the living stone itself, which some say it is.  It is white, whiter than sand, whiter than ivory, glaring white, blinding white."  He stopped and gave her an embarrassed smile.  "I cannot describe it."

"You are doing wonderfully, thus far," she said softly.  

"The people are tall and fair, with hair and eyes of all colors, although many have dark hair and light eyes.  They treated us courteously."  A tight smile hovered on Salim's lips.  "With suspicion, but with courtesy also.  Some of our people responded well, some did not.  We were uneasy, until we met the King."  The smile instantly widened.  "He is a good man, 'Shuah, I could tell.  He speaks with quiet authority, and his face is open and honest.  I was not afraid to make a treaty with that kind of man.  His word is his promise, and he will deal fairly with us."  He paused and a frown creased his face.  "I must speak to our king before some of the others do, and make him see this is a wise choice."

He said nothing more for a moment and she took his hand.  "I am proud of you, Salim.  You are the ambassador the king respects.  He will listen to your words."  She reached out and smoothed back his black hair, laying her hand against his cheek.  Never had she regretted her marriage to Salim Zal-hanid, not when her father had belittled him, nor when the warriors who commanded Haradrim society had dismissed him.  She had loved him for over twenty years now and never questioned her decision to marry him.

Shushuah thought back to her father's horror when she had told him of her choice, one not from the eligible men of proper station that he had listed.  

"'Shuah, I forbid it, he is a weakling, a talker, a promise-maker."  Al-jur Dhan's black eyes had drilled into her.  She had refused to change her decision, threatened to leave and live in the streets if he forced her into an arranged marriage to one of the older warriors he favored for her.  

In the end, she had prevailed, simply because she willed it.  Salim and she had been married without her father's blessing, without his presence at the wedding, and he had never seen his grandchildren before dying what he would have surely considered a valiant death in the War Against Gondor seven years ago.  Shushuah had wept tears at the news, not of grief over his death, but over all they might have shared the many years he had cut himself off from her.

Now she looked up at her husband, his black hair sandy and tousled from his long trip, his face dusty, and loved him all the more for his supposed weakness.  For his ability to see more than one side of an idea, for his belief that those whom many of the people of Harad would call enemies might share a love of family and peace.  For his persistence in working out a treaty with Gondor, to spare Harad any more death and destruction.

She waited and when he did not speak any more she searched his face.  "You have not said if you saw him," she said, her voice very quiet.  

Salim looked down at his hands.  "I told the King of my wish, and showed him the token you gave me.  He sent me to the man they call the Steward.  He is the King's first and foremost assistant."  Seeing her inquiring look her shook his head.  "It was the brother, he had blue eyes, 'Shuah."  Her face fell and he cleared his throat.  "He – he sent you a letter."  Reaching into the small leather case he carried his most important papers in, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it to her.  

Shushuah held the parchment before her apprehensively.  Letters did not convey good news in her experience.  Straightening her shoulders, she opened it.  It was written in Westron and she could only recognize a few of the letters, so she handed it back to Salim.  "Please, read it."

Her husband took the letter and smoothed it out on his knees.

**_To the Lady Shushuah_**

**_Wife of Salim Zal-hanid_**

**_Ambassador of Dalania_**

**_Kingdom of Near Harad_**

****

**_Lady,_**

****

**_It is with pleasure that I send you my greetings and long-overdue thanks.  Your acts of kindness towards my brother Boromir and myself have never been forgotten.  Because of you, my brother was returned to health and his family.  _**

****

**_It is my sad duty to inform you that he was killed several years ago and although he died an honorable death, it was not until that day that I truly realized the great service you had done for me long ago in the desert.  Only then did I understand the grief you had spared me.  I have often thought of your words concerning your own grief upon the loss of your beloved brothers and now recognize your wisdom and sacrifice concerning mine._**

****

**_I return the token that you sent, please keep it and always remember my brother and that you have my gratitude._**

****

**_Sincerely,_**

****

**_Faramir_**

**_Steward of Gondor_**

****

Shushuah sat silently, her hands clasped in her lap.  Salim smoothed the letter once again, then reached down and rifled through his case.  Pulling out a small leather scrap, he handed it to her.  

She looked down at the worn strip, the small tree of Gondor nearly faded away, and remembered the day her father had received it, shaking with anger, from the search party that carried it home.  He had cursed, cursed Gondor and cursed Jekarr, who had been killed and left behind with the others.  He had cursed his own foolishness at leaving, and hers for forcing him to leave.  

"You bear the burden for this!" he had shouted at her.  "If you had not acted like a lovesick girl I would not have had to take you away, they would not have killed them all."  He had thrown the piece of leather in the corner and stalked out and she had retrieved it afterward and kept it all these years.  

She had believed him, then.  Believed that it was her fault that the soldiers left behind had died, believed that but for her they would have returned home to their families, even as she secretly rejoiced to know the man of Gondor had rescued his brother.  She had buried the guilt and the pleasure, and not spoken of it again.

She had never told anyone what had happened those few days in the desert, or that evening when she had been found by the younger brother and had encouraged him to save his brother's life.  Never spoken of the way she had come to care about the green-eyed man or her hope all these years that he lived and remembered her.  Until Salim had been appointed Second Ambassador to Gondor.

When he had told her of his appointment she could see his pride and his apprehension.  Many in Harad had no wish to make peace with Gondor regardless of the fact that each battle with the mighty armies of the northern kingdom ended badly for them.  She had encouraged Salim to accept the appointment, to go to Gondor and broker a peace for their people, and then one night she had pulled the leather scrap from her jewelry case and told him of her trip across the desert nearly twenty-five years ago.

"When you are in their city, find him for me," she had asked.  "Find him and tell him I remember him."

Salim had watched her as she told her tale with black eyes full of compassion and tenderness.  "He was your first love," he said in a teasing voice, instantly regretting his words when her eyes filled with tears.  

"He made me see the horror of hatred and killing only because someone looks different, or comes from a different place," she had said.  "He made me see how precious life is, because he made me think of all that I had lost before."  Her voice had broken and she paused.  "Because of him, I vowed I would marry a man of peace, not war."

Salim had gathered his wife into his arms.  "Then I am glad you knew him," he said softly, "or I would never have had a chance with you."  He had kissed her forehead.  "'Shuah, your father was wrong, it was not your fault those soldiers were killed."  Taking her chin in his hands he looked into her eyes.  "You tell me the men of Gondor were already tracking your father's men.  They would have come regardless.  You did nothing wrong."

"I told them he was there," she whispered.  "I told them to come."  Her tears ran down her cheeks again.  "I just did not want him to die, and instead all of those other men did."

"'Shuah, you do not control the fates of so many," Salim said as he hugged her again.  "The lives of each one of us has a beginning and an end, we can only make our way between those two as best we can."  

Now, sitting in her garden, Shushuah let the silent tears slide down her face as she held the leather scrap and remembered.  Her husband carefully folded the letter and gave it to her, pressing it into her hand on top of the leather embossed with a white tree.  

"The brother is a fine man.  He and I spoke together for a while.  He remembered you as soon as I told him your name."  Salim covered Shushuah's hands with his own.  "They are not the monsters we have been told they are, 'Shuah, just as we are not what they have been taught.  He knows this, this Steward, and some of that knowledge came from you and your kindness so long ago.  Because of that, we will make a peace that serves both Harad and Gondor."  

Shushuah nodded and he pulled her close in a tight embrace, letting her head rest on his chest.  "I love you," he said, "I am sorry I could not bring happier news."  

She looked up and gave him a tremulous smile.  "He did not die alone, in a strange place, surrounded by enemies, did he?"

"No," Salim's voice was sure.  "He died among friends, with his King, with honor.  I have the word of his brother."

"Then I am content," she said quietly.  He kissed the top of her head and they sat together in the garden for a long time, each of them thinking of Gondor and of peace.

***********************************************************************************************************************

THE END


End file.
